


King and Dragonheart

by manic_intent



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dragons, M/M, That Temeraire-esque AU where omegas form companionships with dragons, and although Bilbo is an alpha the Shire is far more modern on this companionship business thank you, and there's a war with the Pale Orc on the horizon, assuming that the dwarves and elves don't declare war on each other first, besides Myrtle thinks (perhaps quite unkindly) that the dwarves are barbaric and unhygienic, what with all that business of dragon pens and raw meat and no dragon bathrooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to go <i>home</i>," Myrtle wailed loudly the moment Bilbo picked his way up the gravel slope to the Ereborean dragon pens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This technically follows a lot of the themes in Naomi Novik's amazing Temeraire series, but I'm a lazy researcher AND I haven't actually finished reading (the last book I read was so depressing… I think they just left China or something D: and I don't really enjoy reading increasingly depressing series), so I'm going to make up or amend the details instead to fit the names to Tolkien's world. Therefore, I haven't tagged Temeraire in the series tags.
> 
> As before, when I write crossovers (or crossover-esque fics), I try to structure the fic such that readers do NOT need to read the sub 'verses. So you won't have to read Temeraire to understand this story, but if you have time, please go and check it out! It's such a great take on the dragonrider trope. 
> 
> And as to the A/B/O thing, I suppose it's probably overkill to have BOTH an A/B/O and a dragonrider trope, but, umm, I'll try to handle it in a non cheesy way. 
> 
> The timelines and character ages have also all been reworked (the older dwarves are younger, and Ori is in the story because I think he will be Bilbo's Special Friend for this fic where Nori was in the earlier one. Not sure about Fili and Kili yet.).

I.

"I want to go _home_ ," Myrtle wailed loudly the moment Bilbo picked his way up the gravel slope to the Ereborean dragon pens.

"Shh, shh," Bilbo hushed Myrtle quickly, with a sharp look around him, as he clambered up to the wooden poles that marked the beginning of the pen, huffing slightly from the effort.

The poles were low, more to mark a boundary than to keep in a species that wouldn't even have to fly to hop over them, and Myrtle stuck her boxy muzzle easily over them, arching her stout neck to bring herself somewhat awkwardly to near eye level. Bramblescales like Myrtle never grew very much larger than she was now, slightly more than twice Bilbo's height at the shoulder sitting up, round and soberly coloured. Myrtle was proud of her scales, a rich honey brown from nose to wingtips to tail, with a cream waistcoat, but her flanks were dusty from travel and she looked thoroughly miserable.

"You haven't been unsaddled," Bilbo protested, climbing a little awkwardly over the pole, Myrtle clucking at him in alarm as he wobbled and nearly fell flat on his face.

She sniffed once he was safely back on the ground. "I wasn't about to let _them_ get their hands on Brandywine cotton and all this antique buckling! The dwarves are _barbarians!_ " Myrtle hissed, though she lowered her tone at Bilbo's arched eyebrows. "Their dragons sleep in _pens!_ I was given a… a _stall_ in some sort of horrid stable! There's nowhere to do a polite _do_ , and, and they feed their dragons raw _meat_ -"

Myrtle's ridged sail over her neck was flaring as the dragon grew more and more upset, steam pouring from her flared nostrils, and Bilbo patted her quickly on the flanks, reassuringly. "We knew all that before we got here, Myrtle."

"It's one thing to have it told to you and one thing to have it happen to you," Myrtle complained, though her sails flattened dispiritedly. "How's the meeting going?"

"We're having a bit of a break." Bilbo decided not to mention that the elves and the dwarves were having a flaming row, and he'd found it increasingly tiresome and had ended up excusing himself, claiming that he was feeling dizzy and tired from the long journey here from the Shire. The old Thain would have been furious to hear about it, but Bilbo was sure that he had been properly obsequious, and it wasn't as though he was about to miss anything.

Speaking of the elves… "Where are the elves' dragons?"

"Up there," Myrtle tipped her muzzle sullenly up at the distant, snowy peaks of the range surrounding the Ereborean valley. If Bilbo squinted, he could make out a shifting outline of something coiled in the snow, sleeping, sleek white scales and ivory horns near perfectly camouflaged. "They wouldn't give me the time of day, uppity things."

That didn't surprise Bilbo; the elven dragons were reputedly as distant as their companions. "What about the Ereborean dragons? They have some steamers too, just like home."

"Stupid. They're happy with their lot. Many of them can't even speak fluent Westron, let alone read and write." Myrtle wiggled her dexterous scaled hands. "Horrible!"

"That's very unkind of you," Bilbo told her firmly, and her head drooped a little further as she blew out a steam-clouded sigh. "The Royal Red attended the discussions. He's hardly stupid." 

Quite the opposite, in fact. Bilbo stifled a shudder, remembering that serpentine neck, the golden eyes bigger than his body that had blinked briefly at him and then glanced away in disdain. The Royal Red, Smaug, had spoken little, even when its hereditary companions, the House of Durin, had started quarrelling with King Thranduil's ambassador over conflicting intel reports about the Pale Orc and the extent of his military might, but Bilbo was certain that the huge dragon was not stupid.

"They treat the firedrakes differently," Myrtle muttered. " _They_ get to sleep in the mountains, in the Iron Foundries. The ones out here are just steamers or spiketails, and one big old etcher. There are more of them back in the pens, but I didn't want to stay there any longer by myself and get poked at by the staff. I'm glad that you came up from the big door. I wasn't going to go near the pens."

"They use dragonfire in their crafting," Bilbo explained, having come out to the pens from the main gate of Erebor because he had gotten painfully lost trying to find his way down from within. "The tour was quite interesting, actually. That's why the firedrakes live in the Foundries." The visitors had only received a very cursory tour of part of the Foundries - given how secretive the dwarves were - but it had been incredible to see how the dwarves had managed to funnel dragonflame to marry alloys of metal that would otherwise be impossible.

Myrtle blew out another sigh, clearly disinterested in the intricacies of dwarven dragon culture. "Bother! How long more are we going to have to be here?"

"For as long as an alliance is worked out." 

"Azog isn't even anywhere _near_ the Shire. I don't see why _we're_ involved."

"We're involved because Gandalf asked us to be involved, remember?"

"And where is the wizard now?" Myrtle's exasperation, Bilbo sensed, was not born out of a feeling of being betrayed but of sheer disappointment that Gandalf had not in fact shown himself. The bramblescale was very fond of the Grey Wizard.

"Still at the White Council in Rivendell, I believe. Now, Myrtle," Bilbo lowered his tone, reaching up until she lowered her snout to press the scales against his palms in a gesture of trust, "I know this is going to be very hard on you, but we've been sent here on behalf of the Shire. I'll try to sneak some food here for you afterwards, and I'll stay with you in the stables-"

"Didn't they give you rooms?" Myrtle interrupted, horrified.

"They did, but if your pen upsets you that much-"

Myrtle was already shaking her head, dislodging her snout from his grip. "No, no, you'll catch your death, Bilbo Baggins, and then how will I face the Thain? I'll manage," she added, grumpily, and then seemed to make an effort to gentle her tone, "For the Shire. Oh, bother, here he comes again," she raised her head suddenly, glancing behind her. 

A dwarf was striding out from the mottled ranks of dragons towards them, dressed in gleaming mail and a black coat, with a trimmed, short dark beard that bore a couple of silver beads. He wasn't handsome by the way hobbits measured such matters, but there was an arresting curiosity in his eyes and a confidence to his gait, and he approached them with only a cursory glance at Bilbo's best clothes and Myrtle's pretty Brandywine finery. 

One of the Dragon Guard, Bilbo surmised, as he saw the battleaxe that the dwarf wore at his side. Erebor's elite dragon-bourne militia. No one else would have been allowed into the pens other than servants, and he looked like no servant.

"You are the ambassador from the Shire?" the dwarf asked politely, in accented Westron. 

"Yes I am," Bilbo replied cautiously. There were hardly any other hobbits about, were there?

The dwarf frowned at him, then glanced back up at Myrtle, sniffing, and just as Bilbo belatedly managed to finally make out the soft warm scent of an omega under all the dragonscents and leather, he stated, "But you are an alpha."

"And…?" Bilbo tried not to bristle instinctively, but Myrtle had already crouched, her sails flaring aggressively. Quickly, he put a calming hand on her flank. "In the Shire," he added quickly, "All dragons choose their companions. Granted, the old school of thought that only omegas should bond to dragons exists, but it is an unpopular one." 

_And old fashioned_ , Bilbo added in his head, mentally. Still, it hadn't quite died out as yet, and it was a very sensitive topic where Myrtle was concerned. Female dragons did not usually pick alphas, regardless of modern thought, and although she had never mentioned anything about it to Bilbo, he was sure that the other dragons sometimes still questioned her choice.

"Alphas are not receptive to draconic," the dwarf noted neutrally. 

"I speak _Westron_ well enough," Myrtle snapped, before Bilbo could say anything, and the dwarf blinked at her in surprise - then to Bilbo's relief, he inclined his head.

"I see. Please forgive my curiosity." 

"No, no, we're not offended," Bilbo said hastily, though Myrtle sniffed above his head, giving lie to his words. "We're quite aware that our ways are different from the, um, dwarven ways. It's been quite a, er, culture shock to Myrtle here, actually. And, oh, how rude of me. My name is Bilbo Baggins," he introduced himself belatedly, with a slight bow. "And this is my companion, Myrtle Bramblescale."

"Pleased to meet you," Myrtle told the dwarf guard frostily.

The dwarf's lips twitched at that, as though on the verge of a grin. "I am Thorin."

"Oh," Bilbo wrestled his memory briefly for the echo of the word, and was rescued by Myrtle, who chirped, "Like the Prince?"

"Like the Prince," Thorin noted, and there was a faint edge of amusement to his tone that Bilbo could not quite parse.

"Dwarves overlap their names quite a bit," Myrtle told Bilbo loftily, clearly pleased that she had remembered the name. "Just like Men. Of course, _we_ don't do that in the Shire." 

Thorin grimaced at that, but said nothing, and Bilbo decided to move the conversation hastily forward before Myrtle, still clearly hurt over the 'alpha' remark, could turn too offensive again. "So, ah, you work with the dragons?"

"He's been trying to remove my saddle all morning," Myrtle muttered, eyeing Thorin with open suspicion. "I wouldn't have any of it!"

"Now look here, Myrtle, Thorin was only trying to help. The buckles will rub your scales raw and sore otherwise," Bilbo said persuasively. "And you don't want to get Thorin into trouble, do you? He's only trying to do his job."

"Oh, very well," Myrtle caved sulkily. "But I'm going to be keeping a very close watch on our things." 

Thorin raised an eyebrow at the 'our', but led Myrtle and Bilbo further up the gravel until they were threading their way over the great sandy pit where a gaggle of steamers blew clouds at each other and rolled in the sand - much to Myrtle's disgust (acting like dragonlings, at their age!), and through the banks of stone nests where spiketails peered down at them, their chunky, barn-sized bodies hunkered over eggs, jag-toothed spiked tails curled protectively over their bellies.

The dwarves of Erebor had a great many species of dragons about, Bilbo noted, many of them larger than Myrtle by far, as compared to the Shire, which only seemed to attract and breed steamers. He tried not to seem too curious, especially whenever he glanced at the distant, bulky form of a huge etcher disappearing into the warm dark of the pens. He had never seen so many different types of dragons before, save in his books!

Dwarven staff in gray tunics glanced up briefly at them as they passed, but quickly turned their attention back to the dragons in their care, and Bilbo was just about to quietly berate Myrtle for overreacting when they had to walk over a huge courtyard, where a steaming patch of blood was still being washed out from the stones. Myrtle made a soft whistling sound of disgust, and staring at the stinking pens of frightened cattle beyond, Bilbo couldn't quite remember to correct her. 

The stall was spacious and clean, with soft, fresh hay, but it was a far cry from the beautiful little room that Myrtle had to herself in Bag End, with its books and her chests of pretty things and her little flowerbox garden that the Gamgees helped her to maintain. Dispirited again, Myrtle sat still while Thorin and Bilbo efficiently unbuckled her saddle and pulled off the saddlecloth and bags, setting them on the racks set up in the corner of the stall. 

She did stretch her wings when it was done, however, and eyed Thorin with great dignity. "Excuse me," Myrtle said mildly, "But where, um, is the bathroom?"

Thorin stared at her with some surprise. "You are a dragon," he told her finally. "You can do that wherever you like and the staff will muck it out."

"You _see_ ," Myrtle wailed at Bilbo, and he winced, petting her quickly to calm her.

"Just, er, do it in an empty stall," he told her in a hushed voice, "And, um, try not to think about it."

"'Try not to think about it'? Well, I never!" Myrtle, however, nuzzled Bilbo, huffing warm breath over his curls, then she turned to regard Thorin, who was watching them with a reserved curiosity. "Thank you for your efforts, Master Thorin," she said stiffly, "I hope I didn't get you into trouble this morning."

"Not at all," Thorin assured her. "You are our guest, just like your companion."

"Then if it's not too much trouble," Myrtle mumbled, "I'll like some mint tea and biscuits, and a fish pie, if you have pies." 

" _Myrtle_ ," Bilbo said reproachfully, but Thorin was already nodding.

"I'll see to it." Thorin let himself out of the stall, closing the door behind him before he ambled off, and Bilbo sagged a little against his dragon, who bumped the arch of her wings around his shoulder. 

"There aren't any bramblescales here," she whispered to him apologetically. "Maybe they just don't know what we're like."

"I did see a few barksnouts and a number of riverslates," Bilbo replied just as softly, "Imagine Paladin's Scabious having to eat some raw steak."

"He'll eat it just to make Esme's Yarrow sick, or if he's dared to do it," Myrtle disagreed, though she perked up a little at the reminder of home. 

"Would you rather the Thain sent Lobelia and Knapweed?"

A churring rumble shook through Myrtle, a dragon's laughter, and she spat a small gout of steam. "Oh! If they did, the dwarves would be at war with _us_ in no time, never mind the Pale Orc."

"Exactly." Bilbo patted Myrtle again soothingly. "Just endure this for a little while. I'll come out to see you whenever I can." 

"I suppose I do have the easy bit, since they only let that Royal Red in on the meeting," Myrtle grumbled. "You're the one who has to figure out what the dwarves or the Grey Wizard want from the Shire."

"Gandalf will show up sooner or later." 

Hopefully before the elves and dwarves declared war on each other, Bilbo thought, a little moodily. Blast all this incomprehensible racial politics! Bilbo and the Shire cared not the least about some ancient ancestral blood feud over a bloody _necklace_. Hopefully King Thrór would come to his senses and get the meeting on track. The elven dragon companions may look willowy and slender, like the sea serpents, but Bilbo had heard tales of what they were capable of, and he had no intention of involving himself or Myrtle in the middle of an all-out draconic war.

At least the King of Dale - a tall, grim-looking man called Bard - had seemed equally bemused by the arguments. Bilbo had felt a little warmer to Men after that, even if they of all races could form no bonds with the dragonkin.

"I'll try to speak to the other dragons again," Myrtle muttered, "Although my draconic's rusty. Maybe I can help you figure this out. Their companions may have talked to them."

"Yes, that's a good idea," Bilbo agreed. If anything, it might keep Myrtle out of trouble. 

"And," Myrtle hung her head a little at this, "We packed so quickly that I forgot my book. If there's a library here, could you please-"

"Of course." Myrtle had always liked to read before she went to bed. "I probably have to get back to the meeting now. But I'll get a book for you afterwards."

"All right." Myrtle turned her head, to eye him carefully, first with one ridged side, then the other, before rubbing her cheek ridges against him with affection. He threw his arms around her in return, breathing the warm scent of her scales, and if he closed his eyes, Bilbo could almost imagine sunlight on the lush fields of the Shire.

II.

The assistant Librarian in the Great Library of Erebor had stared at him uncomprehendingly when Bilbo had asked for a book for Myrtle, too tired after the meeting to remember himself, and then there had been a thorough misunderstanding that had ended up with the Master Librarian tipping them both out of the library, albeit with a heavy book of Westron poetry in tow.

Presumably an unpopular book with the dwarves, Bilbo had thought a little sourly. The leather-bound tome was dusty, the leather cracked, its spine in need of repair; Bilbo had found it deep in the recesses of a back row of shelves.

Still, the very young assistant Librarian seemed loathe to give it up, almost on the verge of tears by the time Bilbo managed to find his way down to the dragon pens, and before they reached the stonework doors that connected Erebor proper to the pens, Bilbo rounded on the young dwarf with a sigh. "Ori. We're really not going to eat your book."

"No, no, no of course not," Ori had quickly turned a bright red. "Y-y-you are our guest. As is your, as is your dragon. I've just never heard of a dragon reading before, and, and I've never been down into the pens, let alone come close to a dragon, and-"

"Never?" Bilbo interrupted, surprised.

"I, um, I may not look like very much at all," Ori muttered awkwardly, though he didn't back down, "But I'm an alpha, Master Baggins. We're not let near the dragons."

"Not _let_ -"

"Oh, um, I translated that badly," Ori cut in with a squeak. "We're, we're not like the Northern Men at all, not with what you hear about how they carry on with the Aspects. It's just that… here, alphas don't bond with dragons, so they can't join the Dragon Guard. So, um, well, and I like my books and my scribe work and-"

"Ori," Bilbo stopped the babbling quickly, dryly, and as Ori lifted his chin, with a young alpha's defiance despite himself in the defence of his books, he sighed. "You can come with me, because I'm a little lost," he said out aloud, ignoring Ori's look of confusion - Bilbo had a very good sense of direction, and he had been the one to find their way down here after a servant had led him back up into Erebor proper from the pens earlier in the day. "And since you're the assistant Librarian, Myrtle has a few questions for you about the use of books in Erebor. So come," he added, when Ori still hesitated.

"I've never been here before," Ori whispered hurriedly, though he pattered gratefully next to Bilbo when Bilbo identified himself to the Dragon Guard recruits tasked with watching the door. Each shot Ori a hard stare, despite the omega scent Bilbo could pick up from the both of them, but they were eventually waved through. Ori stuck very close to him once they walked out into the huge cavern that held the stalls, fixing his gaze on the ground whenever passing servants even glanced at them.

Myrtle was curious about Ori, but so effusively grateful for the book that Ori actually handed it over with a watery smile. "I've never heard of a dragon who could read before," he kept saying, and thankfully, dinner had long mellowed Myrtle's mood enough to ignore it. 

Holding it carefully near the lantern, Myrtle flipped through the pages with her blunted claws, sighing happily, and eventually struck up a conversation with Ori over the amount of literature in the library, which seemed to edge quickly into Ori's apprenticeship as a scribe.

"Master Hwalin is nice to let me work in the library," Ori had confided bashfully, as Bilbo set up the foldable writing table from their saddlebags, and a blank scroll and his quill and ink, when Myrtle insisted on seeing Ori's calligraphy. "But this is what I'm learning to do."

The young dwarf had beautiful, if angular penmanship, and Myrtle was so enthralled that she would not settle down until Ori had written 'Myrtle Bramblescale' very intricately on another scroll. "Now you've done it," Bilbo laughed, as Myrtle's sails flared as she held up the scroll, studying it and preening, then carefully rolling it up and putting it in their pack. "I'm never going to hear the end of it."

"It's a trifle," Ori said shyly, "I can do a much better one when I'm home-"

"What's goin' on here?" a brusque voice cut in, as the stall door was pulled open, and Ori shot to his feet so quickly that he nearly knocked over the table. The newcomer was a huge dwarf, bald but for a thick ridge of black hair over tattooed skin, and he eyed them all with a frank stare that was nearly unfriendly. He wore the leather armor and mail of one of the Dragon Guard, and he smelled of scale and iron.

"Excuse me," Myrtle was the first to recover from her shock, "But please knock on the door in the future, you gave me quite a fright."

The dwarf stared at her, looking her up and down, then over to Bilbo. "You're the hobbit ambassador."

"Er, quite right." 

"Are you aware that we don't have alphas down here?" the dwarf asked flatly.

"Excuse _me_ ," Myrtle drew herself up, sails flaring, "My _companion_ is an _alpha_."

The dwarf didn't even glance at her. "Keep your dragon under control, hobbit," he told Bilbo acidly. "And as to you, Master Ori, you shouldn't even be here. You'll upset the beasts."

"I'm sorry," Ori whispered quickly, pink to his ears, but before he could move, Myrtle had snarled, outraged, " _Beasts!_ " and had stepped forward, wings outstretched. Bilbo grabbed on to her forearm, but the dwarf merely stared at her, unafraid, and behind him, in the dim-lit dark, there was an answering, rumbling growl, deep-throated. An etcher, a large one by the sounds of it, ready to come to its companion's defence if necessary. 

"Shh, shh shh," Bilbo said quickly, and Myrtle glared at the dwarf before settling back down onto her haunches with a huff and a fluting, whistling sound. Deep in the dark, the etcher answered with a low and throaty growl that ended in a snort, and Myrtle muttered to herself, turning her back pointedly to the dwarf and picking up the borrowed book, wings hunched over her back, the very picture of aggrieved injury. 

"I'll take you both back up," the dwarf said gruffly, as though he hadn't just faced down a furious dragon, full-mantled.

"Of… of course, Master Dwalin, I'm so sorry about the trouble," Ori swallowed hard.

"It wasn't his fault, it was mine," Bilbo said quickly. "I insisted that he come along."

Dwalin stared at the both of them, unimpressed. "Move along, now."

Bilbo shot a glance over to Myrtle, but she was pointedly ignoring all of them now, and he sighed. This didn't bode well for the rest of his stay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo was beginning to quietly curse Gandalf in the silence of his mind. It would be just _so_ much like a wizard, to organise such important goings-on and then show up extremely late to it all, and yet seemingly just in the nick of time.

III.

Bilbo had been hoping to sneak off to check on Myrtle before the day's proceedings, but a 'diplomatic' breakfast with the other dignitaries had turned quickly undiplomatic over some ancient slight that had been commenced centuries before Bilbo had ever been born, and attempts by the King of Dale to defuse the tension had turned into a three-way shouting match, during which Bilbo had miserably eyed the tub of butter and had seriously considered drowning himself within it.

By the time he dragged himself off to the pens, it was near midday and Bilbo was already exhausted. Myrtle wasn't in her stall, although their kit was still on the racks, and a Guard recruit had been stationed before the stall doors. At Bilbo's querying glance, the recruit had pointed towards the open ground, and after a few false starts getting lost in the great pens and among the spiketail nests, Bilbo finally located Myrtle sitting under an pine tree, near the other side of the dragon pen, talking to Thorin, of all people. 

Picking up his step anxiously in case Myrtle lost her temper and did something everyone would regret, Bilbo slowed down when Myrtle made her churring laugh at something that Thorin said, and then she tipped up her muzzle as she saw Bilbo approach, ambling out into the sun to rub her cheekbone ridges against his back in affectionate greeting. Bilbo stroked her snout in response, the gesture as practiced as time, and looked up just in time to see Thorin hide a wistful expression quickly. A young Guard, perhaps not long out of being a recruit, Bilbo surmised, maybe not much older than Ori. Yet to be chosen, maybe. There seemed to be a fair number of dragons in Erebor - not that Bilbo could really come to a good estimate, given the size of the pens - but far, far more dwarves. Maybe some omegas were just never chosen. 

It was a saddening thought, and Bilbo was feeling considerably gentler as he smiled at Thorin in greeting. "Good morning, Master Thorin. I trust that Myrtle hasn't been monopolising your time."

"My time was freely given, Master Baggins," Thorin replied, and met his eyes for a moment before glancing away, as though compelled. Was he...? Bilbo shifted, uncomfortably. There were unbonded omegas in the Shire of course, some by choice - although people talked, the hobbits were, for the most part, a gentle folk who were usually strong believers in minding their own business if no evil was being done. Still, alphas always felt restless around them; empaths with their open souls untied to another alpha or settled by the fierce threads of a dragon's heart. "I felt that I should apologize to Myrtle for Dwalin's behaviour during the night."

"It was upsetting but I'm quite over it," Myrtle fluted. Bilbo stared at her with some astonishment. Thorin's apology must have been very detailed and eloquent, if Myrtle was so pleased. "I'll tell you about it later, Bilbo." 

"All right," Bilbo stroked her flank. He trusted her, after all. "It's very good of you to keep her company, Master Thorin."

"No, it was my pleasure." Thorin hesitated, then added, carefully, "I have never met a dragon so widely read."

"You mean a dragon who could read at all," Bilbo corrected, if with a quick smile to show that he wasn't trying to bait Thorin. 

Thorin frowned, though he didn't look at Bilbo, watching the pens instead, beyond, to the sand pits where the other steamers were sunbathing and asleep, curling in sandy heaps over each other. "Smaug can read," he said neutrally. "He usually just cares not to."

"The books we have would be far too small for him," Bilbo said automatically, trying to imagine the gigantic Royal red holding a book. Beside him, clearly sharing the same thought, Myrtle made another churring laugh, then looked around them in automatic alarm as though to see if anyone had noticed her unseemly laughter at another (much bigger) dragon's expense. Belatedly, Bilbo asked, "You've seen Smaug, then?"

It was a silly question; Bilbo's ears were reddening at the tips, he knew, when Thorin glanced at him in surprise. "Everyone has." 

"Right, of course," Bilbo mumbled. The Royal Red _was_ rather difficult to miss. "What about the other firedrakes?" 

"They can read a few runes, and they know our sign language. Necessary skills for working in the Foundries."

"But the rest of us non fire-breathers don't have a need to learn?" Myrtle inquired, if without the anger from yesterday. 

"Ah," Thorin looked at her searchingly for a moment before asking, "Why do you need to learn Westron, or any non-draconic tongue, Myrtle?"

"Why, um," Myrtle seemed thrown by the direct question, mantling briefly before Bilbo pressed his hand firmly on one elbow. "How else are we meant to communicate with everyone?"

"Dragons speak draconic to each other, and their omega companions pick up the language quickly. The non-companions, more slowly, but they too eventually understand it to at least a conversational level. So why would you need Westron?"

"Well," Myrtle said irritably, huffing out a puff of steam, "My Bilbo can hardly speak draconic, can he?" 

Thorin seemed to sense Myrtle's impending flare of temper, and he held up a palm. "Peace," he said quietly. "I do not mean to offend."

Myrtle glowered at him for a moment before her tail flicked back down onto the stone in a small spray of pebbles, a little sulkily, and it fell to Bilbo to prompt gently, "So you're trying to say that your dragons have no need to speak Westron, or Khuzdul, just because their caretakers and companions are all omegas?"

"No," Thorin said, with studied patience, "I am trying to say that they should not have to learn any other language, that we are the ones who should learn theirs. Draconic is a language older and purer than even Khuzdul and to the trained ear, it is beautiful. I do not see why your dragons had to learn Westron, to the point where it seems that they speak in Westron even to each other, and forget the language that was born within their bones."

Rather taken aback by the sudden vehemence in Thorin's tone, Bilbo stiffened, and alarmed, Myrtle flared her wings briefly and protectively before awkwardly folding them, sails flattened in embarrassment. "I've never seen it that way," Myrtle muttered, sounding subdued. "But," she added, "If we all chose not to speak Westron, then we wouldn't be able to speak to more than half the Shire! And that's just, just _silly_ ," Myrtle huffed, "I'll be just as uppity as those elven dragons!"

Thorin tilted his head. "So you have far fewer omegas than dragons?"

"The numbers are about the same," Bilbo said quickly, before Thorin could propose some sort of _trade_ of some sort. He couldn't quite imagine any of the Shire dragons living here for very long, even the Tookish riverslates, who did very much like their strange adventures.

"Then-" Thorin glanced over to Bilbo, but before he could explain, Myrtle had snapped, "That's _none_ of _your_ business."

"Of course," Thorin inclined his head. "Please excuse me." 

Watching Thorin pick his way back down to the sands, Bilbo murmured, "That was very sharp of you, Myrtle."

"I know," Myrtle hunkered down beside him, deflated. "I hadn't meant to. I'm sorry."

"Apologize to Thorin, not me," Bilbo told her, if gently, though he tickled under her chin until she rolled onto her flank to tip her head up and let his fingers down under her crest. "And if those blasted Sackville thistlehorns are still bothering you over-"

"I don't care what they say," Myrtle cut in mulishly, "You're mine and I love you, and you love me." 

"But you might want to stop getting so angry about it over here," Bilbo suggested, tickling the soft unscaled skin under the crest as he spoke. "I think that there's a great many omegas here who want to be bonded but might never have the chance. Like Thorin."

"Thorin? No," Myrtle snorted, the steam from her breath displacing the gravel just before her snout. "He'll have his chance. He mentioned something about being in wait. I think that he's from one of the noble houses. You know, like the Thain said, those who get bonded to the big old dragons who live far longer than us of the Younger Scale. The Etchers and the Firedrakes and such. Like the House of Durin and Smaug." 

"Ah." That explained Thorin's confidence, at least, and perhaps it also explained why he seemed to lack a companion despite being in the elite Dragon Guard. Myrtle was not jealous of Bilbo's time like some of the other dragons were, which was a large reason why the Thain had sent the two of them here in the first place. If Thorin had a dragon companion, he would not have spent so much time with Myrtle alone - his dragon would undoubtedly have wanted to be there. 

Still, not even the Old Scale took more than one companion at a time, and although it seemed old fashioned and somewhat cruel to keep an otherwise more than compatible omega unbonded just for an eventuality, Bilbo supposed he could see the logic of it. Apparently it was easier for family to bond to the same dragon. 

Bilbo shuddered. Re-choosing a companion wasn't unheard of in the Shire - after all, sicknesses and accidents happened even among the gentle folk - but it was usually a painful affair all around. He wasn't sure how the dwarves handled it, and he was equally unsure whether he wanted to know. "Still," Bilbo continued, when Myrtle relaxed further, her wings going limp with pleasure on the warming stone, "It's not a very nice thing to rub companionship in the face of those who might have to wait decades for their chance."

"I know," Myrtle blew out another steam-cloud of a sigh. "Though I got the feeling that he didn't like the idea very much."

"Really?" Bilbo was so surprised that he stopped his petting. He had met omegas who refused companionships before - usually Tooks, with their fey blood - but they were usually just hobbits who were disinterested in the responsibility it took to care for a dragon all their lives, or had allergies, or were afraid of heights or flying, strange eccentricities like that. Thorin had shown none of those. 

"Maybe the big old dragon in his line is a grumpy old wyrm," Myrtle said thoughtfully, her tail wriggling on the gravel as she spoke. "Grumpier than Cardoon over in Tuckborough."

Depressing as the thought of an omega forced by chance to have no companion was, the thought of one born into an eventual companionship that he or she did not desire was even worse, and Bilbo grimaced, letting out a deep sigh of his own. Well. It was none of their business, really. "So what did you want to tell me about Dwalin?"

"Oh," Myrtle churred, amused, "It seems he may have thought that you and that young Ori were carrying on in my stall."

"Carrying what?" Bilbo asked blankly for a moment before the rest of Myrtle's words caught up with him, and he flushed pink, much to his mortification and her amusement - her tail thumped again on the rock. "Well, I never! In front of _you?_ Do they do... do _that_ in front of their dragons? I've never heard of anything quite so brazen!"

"That's what I told Thorin, and we had a bit of a laugh," Myrtle noted. "Why, if you ever did something like that before me I would have splashed you both with the closest glass of water! Not that you ever would have done so. That's not good manners at all, and you have the most perfect manners."

"And besides, Ori was an alpha," Bilbo muttered, then added hastily, "Not that there's anything wrong with two alphas as such, Prim's doing quite well over at the Smials, but it wasn't something that I would've been inclined to, um, consider, just as a personal preference."

"I told Thorin that as well," Myrtle yawned. "For barbarians they're quite progressive on that front, just like the Shire. Alphas and omegas are the same and can pick whoever they like, the only difference is that alphas can't have dragon companions. So an omega is always King."

Bilbo rather doubted that Myrtle's generalisation was true - not, especially, in the way that Ori had acted around the pens. If he recalled the research that the Shire had scrambled to do before sending poor Bilbo and Myrtle to Erebor, it seemed that the noble houses tended to be involved in the Guard. That would have meant an artificial elevation in an omega's status, at the least. He'll have to ask Gandalf about it. "It sounds like the two of you had a good chat." 

"He annoyed me at the start," Myrtle admitted, as she wriggled over to give Bilbo better access under her chin. "He asked if I had another companion. He thought perhaps that you had an omega in the Shire, and the Thain had sent you because you were the alpha half. In the townships of Men, especially to the North, the alphas have a higher social status after all, and he thought maybe the Shire was the same."

"Fiddlesticks," Bilbo laughed, startled, then he asked quickly, "You didn't try to hurt him did you?"

"No, I would never," Myrtle retorted reproachfully. "Even yesterday, I wouldn't have touched that rude dwarf. I just told him that I had never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life, and I didn't see why I had to take up with an omega, or why any dragon who picked an alpha would have to. I'm perfectly happy with _you_." 

"And you won't ever have to," Bilbo told her soothingly. Share Myrtle indeed! That would be the day.

IV.

Within a meandering dispute about ancient borders in distant lands that probably no one else living cared about, Bard cleared his throat, startling Bilbo out of a slow doze against the granite table. He'd just managed to get comfortable against the high-backed chairs, too - one advantage of being small: the dwarves had kindly found extra cushions for him.

"Forgive me if I am bluntly spoken," Bard began, hunched over the table and looking distinctly uncomfortable. Unlike the two elves who had been sent by Thranduil, who managed to make sitting on small (to them) chairs at a small table look perfectly proper and comfortable, Bard had been squirming for the last half hour. A rangy man, with powerfully built arms, always with a bow across his back and no fine clothes or mail, Bilbo had originally mistaken Bard as some sort of bodyguard, much to his later embarrassment. Thank the Valar that he hadn't said anything. 

"Of course," King Thrór rumbled formally, rousing himself enough to sit upright, the golden clasps on his rich beard catching the candlelight and gleaming. "We are always glad of the counsel of the King of Dale."

"Well," Bard seemed a little embarrassed at the formalities, "I'm a bowman born and bred, a ranger before I was a king, and my tongue's nowhere near silver. I'm here to honour Dale's ancient pledge to Erebor, your Majesty. If you plan to go to war against Azog then we will be there, with our blades and shields and bows. I'm curious to know, however, why we're sitting here arguing about matters that surely have little import against the Pale Orc's incursion instead of planning out supply routes and fortifications."

The elven ambassador, Arton, didn't smile, but beside him, King Thranduil's heir, Legolas, glanced up at Bard with open curiosity. It had felt odd to Bard that Prince Legolas was not heading Thranduil's delegation, instead seated as a more or less silent observer, but he supposed that elven ways were never particularly meant to be understood. King Thrór frowned, even as behind him, half-curled on the lowered stone dais that allowed Smaug to watch the proceedings more or less at eye level, the Royal Red stirred. 

"Ah," King Thrór harrumphed, "We will discuss such matters in time, King Bard."

"Forgive me for my haste," Bard pressed, "But I am a Man, and we are a short-lived race. I should like to know, at the very least, the size of our forces' commitment so that I may issue the correct orders for supplies and arms. If it is total war that you are planning, your Majesty, we Men of Dale would like to be fully prepared."

"The size of our neighbors' commitment is still in question," King Thrór noted mildly, and Arton turned his bland face to regard the dwarven king.

"My apologies , O King Under the Mountain, but our own borders are vast, and we were the first to suffer incursion from Dol Guldur. We are _already_ fighting a war, one that you and your allies are still late in joining. Your blood feud with the Pale Orc is-"

"Father may not want to commit any more of our men," Legolas interrupted, a touch hotly, "But remember, _you_ would not help _us_ , King Thrór. The bone dragons that carry the Pale Orc's lieutenants to war, they are raised from the pits at Dol Guldur! The Necromancer concerns not just the elves-"

"Peace, my Prince," Arton interrupted, but Bard was already frowning.

"I had not heard of this. The Pale Orc has dragons?"

Arton glanced at Bard, his bland expression back in place. "There have been sightings, but they have yet been used to any effect."

"How many?" Bard demanded, but King Thrór was already speaking firmly. 

"King Bard, let the Dragon Guard deal with any aerial threat. We'll need your bowmen and your blades for other matters. We have yet to commit to Dol Guldur because the threat seems contained within Mirkwood-"

" _Contained-_ " Legolas repeated, narrowing his eyes, but Bard was already interrupting.

"With all due respect," Bard said tightly, "Dale is a trade-run city, with only a token standing militia. We have no real army, and if the war we face also involves dragons, raised by black magic or otherwise, I cannot of good conscience hide this 'tiny' detail from my men."

"Nor can I hide it from my Thain," Bilbo managed to find his tongue, "Unlike the rest of you, the Shire has no army at all. We're very, um, pleased to have been invited to the table along with all you er, important folk, but we're none too sure how we can be of any use, really."

Arton allowed him a polite and mirthless smile, although at his side Legolas' quick and fleeting grin was a touch more friendly. Beside him, Bard was nodding slowly. "If your people know nothing of war, then we cannot out of good conscience ask you to partake in it-"

"They can _learn_ ," a rumble shook Bilbo in his chair, and to his surprise, he realized that behind King Thrór, the Royal Red was watching him, with one unblinking, giant golden eye. "If the Pale Orc breaches the valley, his army will sweep westward. Dale will burn. Mirkwood will be caught between the anvil and the fire, and then the Shire will be all that is left."

It was far more words than Bilbo had ever heard the Royal Red speak all at once, and in the corner of his eyes, he could see King Bard sitting stiffly to attention. Only the dwarven king made no reaction; Arton's eyes were narrowed, and Legolas was studying Smaug with the same unashamed curiosity. 

"F-forgive me as I say this," Bilbo tried not to squeak, "But we're soft folk who love our peaceful ways. Perhaps our Thain will be amenable to helping you with supplies and such, but we've, we've not much more to offer."

Smaug snorted, his breath nearly unbearably hot even from this distance, as his companion, King Thrór, glanced keenly at Bilbo. "How many dragons does the Shire have, Master Baggins?"

"Um, er," Bilbo smiled uncertainly, thinking quickly, "We haven't done a count in years, but I should think, there's at least two thousand... all steamers though... goodness me, did I say something wrong?"

"Two thousand _dragons_ ," King Thrór repeated, incredulously, half-risen from his seat, even as behind him, Smaug blew out another scorching-hot snort, and even Arton blinked at Bilbo, as though noticing him for the first time. Beside the ambassador, Legolas smiled brightly, as though suddenly, boyishly hopeful, and perhaps that was the most frightening of all.

"That sounds like... a great many," Bard seemed equally surprised.

"Um, er, well, we have been blessed with good land, and there are a great many hobbits, what with our large families and," Bilbo quickly swallowed the rest of his words, as he belatedly realized that maybe letting _this_ particular detail slip hadn't been quite for the best. Oh! Where was Gandalf?

"We have..." King Thrór began, glanced over at Arton, then added, gruffly, "A few hundred dragons, including the ones set for breeding, and those too small for war. Your statement surprises me, Master Baggins. I must give this some thought."

"As we must," Arton added politely.

"We know nothing of war," Bilbo repeated firmly, "Our dragons, as well."

" _Learn_ ," Smaug growled, and Bilbo flinched as the deep rumble rattled his bones against his seat. The Royal Red fixed them all again with his golden eyes, then he dipped out of sight, climbing back down into the warmer depths of the Iron Foundries. 

Bilbo found himself standing awkwardly at the granite table as the elves and the dwarven king drifted away, his fists balled at his sides. What had he done? Maybe he should leave, he thought quickly, for a moment. Get back home and tell the Shire to shut their doors to the dwarves, who seemed to count their dragons in terms of war. Or-

"Master Baggins," Bard's voice shocked him out of his gloomy thoughts. "Could you walk with me for a while?"

"Uh, of course," Bilbo agreed, blinking, mentally slapping himself . He'll have to wait for Gandalf, at the least, and be more careful. 

"I would like to see the dragon pens," Bard added, as he walked slowly, careful of Bilbo's far smaller stride. "And I would be honoured to be introduced to your dragon."

"Certainly." Bilbo couldn't quite see anything but blunt forthrightness in the King of Dale, even if he was still wary, but he supposed that Myrtle would love to have at least _something_ to preen over back home. Meeting a King would be a veritable feather in her cap, and he couldn't quite think of a way to refuse politely. "This way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the remarkably detailed discussions over in the forums, the estimate of the Shire/Hobbit population runs anything from around 5k to 10k. :O


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori was a very... socially awkward young alpha. There were older alphas in his family, perhaps.

V.

"Hsst! Master Baggins?" Just as they were about to descend from the Courts to the Grand Hall, a shadow detached itself from the archways of one of the winding, stomach-churningly narrow stairways that led down from the tiers of light set against their left - the administrative districts of Erebor.

Bilbo saw Bard's hand drift to his waist, as if to reach for a blade that wasn't there, then he straightened as Ori slipped out into view, a cloth-wrapped bundle clutched in his hands. He hesitated and stared wide-eyed at the king, startled, then blushed a deep red and started to back off, but Bard hastily said, "Master Baggins, I just remembered that I had some business to attend to. Shall we meet at the Great Gate, an hour from now?" 

"Of course, your Majesty," Bilbo replied just as solemnly, trying not to grin, and Ori squeaked something incoherent as Bard nodded gravely to them both and loped away, with the silent ground-eating gait of a wolf rather than that of someone used to courts and courtiers. 

"I, I didn't see him there," Ori confessed urgently, once Bard was probably out of earshot.

"But he's so tall," Bilbo was grinning now despite himself. "Why, if I stood on your shoulders, we'll still be smaller! No, no, I was just teasing," Bilbo said soothingly, as Ori somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of red. 

"H-h-he was in the shadows," Ori ducked his head, then seemed to straighten up, and thrust the bundle into Bilbo's hands. It was heavy, and the fabric, on closer inspection, was a watertight oilcloth wrap. Bilbo was about to undo the leather bands holding it together, with their cunning bronze beads capped at the ends, but Ori added, quickly, "It's for Myrtle."

"Oh. Thank you very much, Master Ori," Bilbo cradled the gift carefully in his arms. Judging from the length and the weight, he could place an educated guess at what it was. Myrtle was going to be so _very_ pleased. "By the way, Myrtle hopes that you didn't get into trouble. She really does like you."

"No, no, I was in no trouble at all," Ori mumbled, looked around, and added something so soft that Bilbo couldn't catch it.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, well," Ori scuffed at his feet, "I have an older brother who's had a few run-ins with Master Dwalin. Usually his fault, not Master Dwalin's... he's a bit of a, um, rogue. But, um," and here, Ori looked up helplessly at Bilbo, "Master Dwalin was not _that_ angry at us, was he?"

"Actually it seemed that he intervened under a misunderstanding," Bilbo said carefully, trying to keep his tone light. Was that why Ori seemed so intimidated by Dwalin? "He thought that we were, well, running the maypole."

Ori shot him a look of complete confusion, and Bilbo dropped his tone, "Um, well, er, hanky panky? Um, dipping our wicks?" As Ori's confusion only seemed to grow deeper, Bilbo gave in. "Never mind. Just, er, yes, there was a misunderstanding. But nobody's angry."

Ori glanced around again, then he whispered, "Master Bilbo, are you paired? With an omega?" When Bilbo raised his eyebrows, he continued quickly, "Just that, um, you seem to be very nice, you and Myrtle, and I don't know who else to ask, because I know I'll get laughed at, so... so..."

"Master Ori, I have no omega," Bilbo said gently, and when Ori immediately deflated, added, dryly, "But I'm not celibate, if that's what you mean."

"Er..." Ori frowned. "You mean, you and other alphas-"

"Oh no, you don't, well, you don't have to, well, you don't have to bond," Bilbo noted awkwardly, "Er, at least, not in the Shire, and what tweens do when they are young is usually between themselves. You see, no one's expected to understand what a bond entails until they are at least fifty respectable years of age, so it's quite a separate matter and-" 

Ori's eyes were round with astonishment. "You mean, you, with an omega, and didn't... didn't..."

"All a bit of fun, no children involved," Bilbo blinked slowly, as Ori's eyes seemed to go even rounder, "And before you ask, never with an omega who didn't already have a dragon companion. So. None of that awful business of heat madness and accidental bonding." 

"Oh. I see." Ori seemed to relax a fraction. "I, um, I suppose I can see the, er, logic in that, but," Ori brightened, "So you do know how to court an omega?"

"Well, I'm almost certain that our courtship customs will be wildly different from yours, Master Ori," Bilbo noted wryly. "For one thing, some of the flowers involved wouldn't even grow on your slopes."

"I meant," Ori said, in a hushed voice, "How would you even talk to them?" 

"Uh, normally, of course," Bilbo replied; it was now his turn to be bewildered. Save in the dragon pens, alphas and omegas weren't segregated in Erebor, as far as he could tell. Was Ori really just that shy? "Or at least that's what happens in the Shire. Hobbits are just hobbits. We'll be more interested in whether someone's a Sackville or a Gamgee or a Took than whether they're an alpha or an omega."

"A...?"

"Family," Bilbo hurriedly corrected himself. "Family's very important in the Shire."

This seemed to discourage Ori even more; he ducked his head. "Oh. I suppose so. Family's important everywhere. Thank you, um, thank you for your time, Master Baggins."

Now completely lost, Bilbo nodded to the young alpha. "Um, I should be able to return that poetry book soon," he added awkwardly, but Ori merely offered him a frozen nod before scurrying away.

It hadn't yet been an hour, but he found King Bard waiting patiently by the Great Gate regardless, and Bard merely nodded when Bilbo started to apologize. Once they were far enough up out of the Gate, however, Bilbo started to laugh ruefully, and Bard raised his eyebrows. "Master Baggins?"

"Oh, no, just a thought," Bilbo tried hard to fight his smile. "Young alphas are the same everywhere, I think."

"I would be considered young by your years," Bard replied, if with a wry answering grin, and Bilbo blinked at the King in surprise. Oh - but of course. He had heard that in the cultures of Man, alphas naturally held positions of power. He personally hadn't been able to tell - there was no scent that he could pick out under Bard's leather and cotton: similarly, he hadn't been able to tell what the elves were. 

"That poor young scribe has got some omega into his head," Bilbo explained, as Ori's behaviour slowly started to make more sense. "I think that he's going to make quite a mess of it." Perhaps, rogue or not, Ori's older brother was protective. It happened, especially in families with multiple alphas. Certainly Ori seemed to be sheltered to the point of being socially awkward.

"Ah, well, he is young," Bard noted comfortably, "And he will learn. I think it may be more complex for the rest of you than it is for Man," Bard added thoughtfully, "The dragons seem to add a third factor to everything."

"They stabilize unbonded omegas," Bilbo shrugged, "And, at least where the Shire is concerned, they provide balance to unbonded alphas."

"Balance?"

"I'm not sure about Man," Bilbo noted carefully, "But young, unbonded alphas tend to be sometimes, well, aggressive. Not violently so, not in the Shire, but they can be rather rude when the mood gets to them." Especially when near unbonded omegas, Bilbo mentally added, but usually it was a diplomatic business all around, with dragons and other hobbits about to make sure nothing impolite happened. 

He personally was glad that he had never had to experience anything of the sort. Thank the Valar for Myrtle. He had seen the effect of heat madness once, in the spring equinox festivities, when poor young Miri Brandybuck had the terrible luck of finally Showing _and_ having her Time immediately, and although it had been quickly sorted by the Shirriffs and their dragons, there had still been quite a few red faces and apologies the day after.

Bard seemed to regard Bilbo with something akin to surprise, then he smiled faintly, and oddly sadly, before looking back up to the distant poles that marked the dragon pens. "Only 'rather rude'...?"

"Er... again, I'm not sure about the differences... but, um. Hobbits believe that omegas are, well, we call them 'open souls'. Empaths. They're very receptive to the non-verbal. That's why they pick up draconic so quickly; half of draconic is non-verbal."

"We are, so far, in agreement, Master Baggins."

"Alphas are 'closed souls', self-contained, to the effect that they attract open souls - an alpha-omega bond creates a, um, 'total soul', a balanced set of individuals unaffected by others."

"Again, we are in agreement."

"So a dragon's heart," Bilbo continued, encouraged by Bard's curiosity, "Is neither an open or a closed soul, but something else. It's a hungry thing, I guess, and it, er, pulls one soul to it and keeps it, rather like a treasure. That's how bonding works. The dragonscents physically also help as a calming agent - or so some think, I'm not too sure myself - but for the most part, the stability provided by a dragon's heart prevents emphatic build-up, er-"

"Heat madness," Bard supplied, raising an eyebrow. "Bonded omegas do not go into heat?"

"And bonded alphas aren't affected by omegas in their Time," Bilbo finished. "You live right next to Erebor, O King. The dwarves-"

"Are very protective of their secrets. I do thank you for the insight," Bard cut in gently, and wryly. "Your unbonded alphas are only 'rather rude' indeed! Yours is a far gentler folk, you of the kindly West. You should not have answered the war council's call, Master Baggins."

This was precisely his thought as well. "The wizard was persuasive."

"If I may offer some advice," Bard ventured, as he kept pace with Bilbo to the pens, "Agree to nothing until you can get word from your Thain." 

"That's precisely what I was planning to do," Bilbo admitted.

"But," Bard added, just as carefully, "I would ask you to stay for the rest of the council, at least until the wizard comes." 

"I was planning to," Bilbo frowned at Bard. "Why?"

"That is good to hear." Bard seemed to relax a fraction. "You see, Master Baggins, I do agree with that giant dragon behind the throne. Even gentle folk cannot sit idly on the waysides of the world, when it goes to war. Who but the world will defend them in turn? You say that your lands are rich. Perhaps you can help with supplies... a small army of winged-"

"Pack animals?" Bilbo interrupted, with an edge to his tone.

"Peace, Master Baggins," Bard arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps you have healers. Healers on dragons would be useful. Or craftsmen, or smiths, messengers."

The Hobbit Dragon Peace Corps, Bilbo thought, and had to swallow a giggle, his growing irritation fading. "You smile," Bard continued, as they reached the border, "But I would not discount it." He glanced over the rail - absurdly low to a Man. "Should we enter?"

"No, I'll call her. The dwarves are a little sticky about alphas hanging about the pens." Something told him that Bard's rank and his position as honoured guest probably wouldn't make the situation look better to the Dragon Guard.

Bilbo put his fingers to his mouth, managing the fluting, staccato whistle which was probably the only bit draconic he had ever managed - Myrtle's dragon name - and waited. Eventually, there was movement over from the fir trees, and he could make out Myrtle darting over and out of the sky, wings cutting over the draft gracefully to land neatly beside him, nuzzling him in greeting before looking curiously over to Bard. Standing beside Myrtle, with her on her haunches, her shoulders were still higher than Bard's head, and she sniffed briefly before looking back down to Bilbo for an introduction.

"Myrtle, this is King Bard, of Dale. Your Majesty, this is Myrtle Bramblescale."

"Oh. Oh!" Myrtle's sails flared, in surprise and embarrassment, and then she dipped her snout in a polite bow. "Very pleased to meet you, I'm sure."

"And I you," Bard smiled warmly, with a bow of his own that gave Myrtle quite the turn, her tail curling and uncurling uncertainly, blinking quickly; she was very pleased indeed, but trying to remember her manners. For a moment, in the glow of his dragon's pleasure, Bilbo quite forgot about the nasty end to the last meeting.

Up until Myrtle brought it up herself. "How did your meeting go? Um," she hesitated, and added, a little shyly, "Your Majesty."

"I very much doubt that dragons are much for mortal titles," Bard noted solemnly, if rather extravagantly, given that the Younger Scale were just as mortal as their companions. Still, Myrtle preened a little still, and Bilbo laughed.

"Dear me! King Bard, I do believe you weren't quite so truthful when you said that you were not silver-tongued."

"Ah, well, this is an unusual day for me," Bard admitted, "For other than Smaug, I've never been this close to a dragon."

That was true - the dwarven dragons never seemed to venture far, not to the border of the pens. "Well, I hope you aren't too disappointed," Bilbo grinned, and got a light, reproachful cuff over his head from a wing. 

"Actually I think I prefer Myrtle here - if you don't mind me calling you Myrtle - to Smaug," Bard declared.

"Oh, oh now _that_ I cannot believe," Myrtle said reprovingly, though she did preen a little again at the remark. "A little steamer to a Royal Red?" 

"When you speak, I don't feel as though my teeth are about to jar out of my head," Bard admitted, "And you seem rather more charming."

"Ah, well, I," Myrtle fluted, overwhelmed, and Bilbo patted her absently on her shoulder.

"Now, love, when you recount this later to everyone in the Shire, try not to explode from self-importance, will you?" 

"Speaking of the Shire," Bard asked casually, "Are the other dragons like you?"

Bilbo straightened up, belatedly paying attention, but Myrtle, quite charmed, was already saying, "Well, the thistlehorns aren't quite as polite as us bramblescales, the barksnouts can be a little noisy, but they make great friends, and oh, the riverslates are always getting into mischief, but that's quite likely because of the Tooks." 

"They're all steamers," Bilbo cut in quickly, "And the bramblescales are probably as big as they get. They all live in our hobbit holes, with us, and they're our _friends_ , not our _weapons_."

Myrtle stared at him with some surprise, and Bard said gently, "Master Baggins, I did not presume to think so. Myrtle, you and Master Baggins are very welcome to visit Dale, whenever you wish."

"What was that all about?" Myrtle whispered to Bilbo, when they were heading into the pens, afterwards. Bard had excused himself politely, and had started walking towards the distant lights of Dale, further in the deep of the valley within the shadow of Erebor. 

"I'm worried, Myrtle," Bilbo whispered back in response, as they crossed the courtyard with its washed-out stains into the warmth of the stalls. "I think I may have said more than I should at today's council meeting. Wherever _is_ Gandalf?"

"Why, what could have happened?" Myrtle asked, her sails flattening in worry, and Bilbo was about to tell her when he recognised the dwarf leaning against Myrtle's stall. Thorin smiled when he saw them, straightening up.

"Master Baggins. You'll be missed at dinner."

Bilbo was not hungry in the least, not anymore, and at his wan smile and an excuse, Myrtle lowered her snout to stare at him in concern. It wasn't like a hobbit to refuse dinner, and Bilbo hastily amended, "I'll like to have dinner with Myrtle, actually, if that could be arranged."

"Of course," Thorin looked Myrtle over, frowning slightly, then glanced back over to Bilbo. "You seem troubled, Master Baggins."

"Well, er," Bilbo had never been able to lie very well to Myrtle, and he could see her growing more and more anxious, shifting her weight as she followed him into the stall, "It's council business, Master Thorin." 

Surprisingly enough, instead of taking the hint, Thorin followed them into the stall. "Perhaps I may be of assistance."

"I don't think it's going to be just a matter of you talking to your noble-born father and him leaning on the king," Bilbo said tiredly, and Thorin stiffened for a moment, a flash of some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes, just as Bilbo remembered his manners and hastened to add, "But I'm sure that your family is very, um, important, and I'm very thankful for the offer." 

Thorin shot him a look of confusion before he blinked and nodded. "Still-"

"Well, if you really want to help," Bilbo said, a little desperately, casting about for any topic at all before lighting, with some gratefulness, on Ori's little problem, "I suppose I do have a little curiosity about your culture."

"Ask away," Thorin noted, intelligent enough to notice a feint when he saw one, but perhaps too wary of Myrtle's anxiousness to insist. 

"Ah, well, you see, it's just a little curiosity, um," Bilbo tried to word his query as wide as possible, hoping that it wouldn't be traced to Ori, "Well, how exactly would one dwarf, er, go about courting another dwarf?"

"It depends on rank," Thorin seemed very surprised by the question, but so did Myrtle - her anxious weight-shifting had ceased, and she sat down on her haunches, watching him in bewilderment. "Those who are highborn have perhaps... rather more procedures."

"And those who are not?" Ori's allusions to his brother and his reaction to Bilbo's words at the end hadn't seemed to indicate a noble family - and surely a noble-born boy would not have had to struggle to find work to do to support his apprenticeship of his trade.

"Well," Thorin said helplessly, frowning, "I cannot say that I am very familiar with that, but I presume the practice is quite the same over much of the world. Gifts? An exchange of letters?"

"Any specific gifts?"

"All dwarves learn a trade," Thorin shrugged. "Several trades, sometimes. It's customary to craft something pleasing as a courting gift."

"Ah, I see. Thank you, Master Thorin." Oh, well. Ori wouldn't have a problem there, as far as Bilbo remembered - he was _very_ talented at calligraphy. Belatedly remembering Ori's gift, Bilbo handed over the bundle to Myrtle. At her curious glance, he grinned at her. "Guess who." 

Her blunt claws carefully picked away the ties on the oilcloth, which unfurled neatly from a large, heavy scroll of beautifully creamy stock. Sails flaring with excitement, Myrtle tucked the oilcloth over one forearm and unrolled the parchment. It was her name - beautifully and intricately picked out in knots and curls of ink, bold and sweeping over the parchment, and worked over with a lacework of gold and silver inked fleurs-de-lys and little stylised myrtle flowers. Fully spread, the parchment was at least as long as Bilbo was tall, and it was, Bilbo thought, awed and amazed, a work of art. 

"Why, why I... well, I..." Myrtle was at a complete loss for words, turning the scroll this way and that against the lanterns, admiring the gleam of the gold and silver ink.

"It's _incredible_ ," Bilbo agreed breathlessly, sidling over for a closer look. "We'll have it framed immediately when we get home and put it in your room." 

"Or on the mantlepiece in our entrance hall," Myrtle suggested instead, eyes still glued to the paper, "It's a sight better than that old painting that we have. Knapweed will go green with envy! Oh! We should not have packed so quickly," Myrtle told Bilbo anxiously, "We have nothing but bits and bobs from the Shire; that chest of things we brought was from the Thain to the King, and it's already been handed over. I don't see what we could possibly give Master Ori in return." 

"I'm sure that you'll come up with something," Bilbo said doubtfully, "Or maybe we could get something from Dale. I have coin." Turning to Thorin, he was about to ask whether the coin used in the Shire was acceptable in Dale, when he hesitated - Thorin's lips were thinned, and his expression tight with what seemed to be anger. 

"Excuse me, Master Baggins, I'll speak to the kitchens," Thorin said flatly, and let himself out of the stall. Puzzled, Bilbo turned to Myrtle, who shot him an equally astonished look.

"Did we just get Master Ori into trouble again?" Myrtle's joy wilted visibly at the thought.

"I don't see why we would've. It was a gift, and we're guests," Bilbo muttered, somewhat annoyed at Thorin's churlish reaction to such a beautiful piece of work, and if he had to admit it, rather disappointed. Thorin had seemed so... well, 'nice' wasn't exactly what Bilbo would have called him, but he _had_ rather enjoyed Thorin's company, up until now. Whoever Ori had his sights set on, Bilbo thought, if he or she couldn't appreciate something like this, then Ori had best look at someone else.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dale was... not exactly what Bilbo would have expected.

VI.

Council was not in session the next morning. Bilbo spent an hour in the morning pushing his breakfast around his plate, obsessing uncomfortably over what that could have meant in the light of his slip up, then he sighed, patted his belly, and decided to take the day off.

Leaving a message with the door guard in case anyone was looking for him, Bilbo saddled Myrtle up, much to her delight, and they took a long, slow and somewhat chilly flight around the valley. 

"Are you wrapped up all right?" Myrtle kept asking anxiously, as she caught another sedate draft, her wings outstretched in the morning breeze. 

"I'm fine, Myrtle." 

The mountains looked bleak and forbidding from up here, all jagged dark teeth capped in ice. Erebor rose from their midst, a towering and bleak monument to dwarven ingenuity and engineering, smoke from the Foundries pouring gritty and thick from its chimneys, the River Running gushing in a silver ribbon through the brilliant gold and bronze Gate set into its slopes. The dragon pens, Bilbo noted, were rather more extensive than he had thought; Myrtle had been housed in the section devoted to the Dragon Guard, but there were other, smaller pens, set against the mountain, further south.

Resolving to investigate later, Bilbo patted Myrtle on her shoulder. "You aren't getting stiff? It _is_ getting cold."

"Oh no," Myrtle replied, her breath heaving larger puffs of steam than normal. She was in a sober mood; Bilbo had filled her in on his slip up, and she had been thinking. "Bilbo… I think it's not so bad as all that," she said, as she took them in a large loop over the beautiful brick and sandstone arches of Dale. "Gandalf certainly knew how many Shire dragons there were, probably better than anyone would. And it isn't as though we could have hidden it forever."

"He probably meant for everyone to find out," Bilbo muttered.

"Oh yes," Myrtle nodded, and seemed to perk up. "That means it'll be fine. He knows what he's doing."

Bilbo wished that he shared Myrtle's faith in the Wizards, but it was a fine day for flying, cold as it was, and beneath them, in the courtyards and gardens of the small trading city, Men were pointing and waving up at them. Myrtle made a churring sound, amused, even as from the highest courtyard, in the slender castle, a familiar looking Man strode out, clad in simple leather armour and a grey cloak, shading his eyes against the morning sun. 

"Is that Bard?"

"Oh yes!" Myrtle was already circling down, as Bard beckoned to them, and they landed neatly on the paved courtyard floor. "Good morning, Bard," Myrtle said, a little self-importantly, then she ducked her head in belated embarrassment when behind Bard, his fur-coated advisers raised their eyebrows and murmured amongst each other.

"Good morning, Myrtle, Master Baggins," Bard ignored the gaggle of bearded Men behind him, striding forward instead, a nearly boyish grin on his lips. "A fine day for flying."

"We certainly thought so," Bilbo agreed, dismounting. "You have a beautiful city, O King."

"We certainly like to think so," Bard replied, amused. "Come! Have you had breakfast?"

Despite Bilbo's feeble protests, a table was brought out to the courtyard, with bread, honey and other warm pastries. Weak against anything baked with ham or bacon, Myrtle helped herself, shyly at first, then with greater confidence when Bard kept pushing baskets to her, until Bilbo, laughing, said, "You'll make her too heavy to fly at this rate, your Majesty."

"'Bard'," Bard corrected, and grinned when Myrtle huffed and prodded Bilbo's shoulder with a wing. "Please, no formalities. I should like to think that I am among friends, and there is no Council business today, is there?"

"I didn't expect to get to have a holiday," Bilbo admitted wryly. 

"Enjoy it while you can. They'll be few and far in between soon," Bard advised, reaching for bread and honey. 

Bilbo was about to push over the jar of honey when a slender figure slipped past the courtiers and the guards, tall and ethereal in an ivory jacket and breeches. Prince Legolas smiled warmly at them, seemingly oblivious to Bilbo's shock, stepping over to the table. He pressed a palm against Bard's shoulder in a brief and casual touch before folding himself down on the bench beside the king with an impossible grace. 

"Prince Legolas!" Bilbo recovered his tongue hurriedly, "I, um-"

" _Mae g'ovannen_ , Master Baggins," Legolas said pleasantly. "And to your dragon."

"Myrtle Bramblescale," Bilbo supplied, as Myrtle stared at the elf with unabashed curiosity. "Er… may I ask… that is to say, I didn't expect to see you here, your Highness."

"No titles, please," Legolas had picked up a pastry, delicately, and he tore off a corner, just as delicately. "I too, was visiting Dale."

Beside him, Bard snorted, drinking from the cup of thick, sweet tea that he had told Bilbo was a specialty of Dale. "Trying to drum up support for his war. As though we didn't already have a war on our hands."

"I felt that there would be no harm in trying," Legolas lifted one graceful shoulder into a shrug, his grin both boyish and impossibly timeless. "But since you did bring it up, Bard-"

"The answer is no," Bilbo cut in quickly, as uncouth as it seemed to interrupt a Prince, and an Elven Prince, at that. "Our dragons aren't weapons."

"Neither are ours," Legolas said gently. "By the way, Siloratan mentioned that Myrtle tried to speak to him, and apologizes if he seemed rude. He is only conversant in Quenya."

"Your dragons don't speak draconic?" Bilbo asked, surprised. 

"Our dragons are from the Undying Lands, Master Bilbo. They are… neither of what you would call the Old Scale, or the Younger Scale. We call them 'dragons' in the Westron tongue out of convenience. They are not dragons at all, in many ways." Legolas said soberly, "Rather, like the ones you call the Wizards, they are spirits-made-flesh. As we Elves call ourselves the Children of the Stars, they call themselves the Children of the Sky. We are one."

"And how many are there?" Bilbo asked, frowning. Not even the Thain had known anything about elven dragons, and Gandalf had always dodged the questions put to him about them. The Elves were a secretive race, perhaps worse than the dwarves.

"A hundred dragons chose to remain with my kinfolk on Middle Earth after the War of Wrath." 

"And now…?"

"A hundred still," Legolas said, smiling. "We have twenty in the Woodlands, my father's realms."

"Only twenty!" Bilbo exclaimed, surprised. "But then how do your omegas manage?"

"Unlike the Younger Races, the First Children do not have… aspects, Master Baggins."

It was an alien thing to contemplate - beside him, Myrtle was staring openly, a pastry still held in her claws. Bard, however, was eating blithely, as though they were discussing the weather and not impossibilities. He was either used to Elves, or used to Legolas, Bilbo decided, blinking slowly. But then again, why should he not? Mirkwood sat on the borders of Laketown, Dale's next closest trading ally. 

"Well, um," Bilbo cleared his throat, blinking slowly, "Thank you for sharing. I had never known."

"It is not common knowledge," Legolas agreed. "But are we not allies now, Master Baggins? Allies should not have secrets."

"This attitude is precisely why Arton is in charge of the delegation and not you," Bard noted mildly, and even as Bilbo stared at Bard, surprised at his impoliteness, Legolas laughed. 

"Yes, of that I am aware, _a'mael_. But I think I will not be here for much longer. Dol Guldur becomes a bigger problem each day."

"You'll just go? Before the council even decides on anything?" Bilbo asked, surprised.

"No, Arton will remain. But I will have to go." Legolas said wryly. "Even if I did not already command a company of my own, it is not seemly for the King to send his son away, even if it is on diplomatic business, when he asks the sons of others to bear arms in his name."

Bard sighed, and Legolas glanced at him, his smile quick and indecipherable, pressing a palm briefly and lightly over Bard's bracer-sheathed wrist, then he looked over to Myrtle, asking her seemingly harmless questions about her life in the Shire, which she answered shyly at first, then animatedly. Bilbo supposed that there was no harm. Legolas' questions - about where Myrtle slept, and what the dragons did day to day - would only serve to reinforce Bilbo's statements, after all. 

Legolas excused himself after the (second) breakfast, and Bard took Bilbo and Myrtle for a tour through Dale. Myrtle was highly self-conscious at all the attention, sticking as close to Bilbo as she could, but she did preen a little afterwards, when they got to the marketplace: merchants of all shapes and sizes seemed to be falling over themselves to give her charming little gifts. 

"They've never seen a dragon this close, either," Bard kept telling her, as she politely thanked a toymaker for a lovely little carving of a rocking horse, worked in cherrywood.

"Oh, Master Ori's gift!" Myrtle recalled, as she passed the little horse to Bilbo to fit into the now brimming saddlebags. "We must buy something for him, since we are here."

"Maybe one of those lovely journals with the leather tooled covers," Bilbo suggested, as they threaded their way carefully through the thronging streets, children all but spilling over balconies to watch the dragon go past, eyes huge and wide, pointing at them and giggling. 

Bard offered a few suggestions of his own, and in the end they bought a beautifully soft scarf of a robin's egg blue, the soft tassels at the edges cunningly threaded with silver. Myrtle insisted on paying, despite the weaver's protests, and it was time for lunch by the time they managed to get free from the marketplace. 

They had lunch again at the castle, and after many promises to visit again, and soon, they flew at a more sedate pace back to Erebor, Ori's present carefully wrapped and hidden in the saddlebags. 

Myrtle began to head towards the Dragon Guard's pens, but Bilbo, mellowed and emboldened from lunch, suggested, "Take us further, Myrtle. I want to see those pens."

"I've asked the other dragons about them," Myrtle said doubtfully. "They belong to the non-Guard dragons. The messengers and such." 

"It'll be a useful insight," Bilbo told her, and she nodded, circling down past the large pens to the smaller ones beyond. No gravel here, Bilbo noted, as he dismounted, only hard-packed dirt, scored with claws and repacked here and there, haphazardly. There was a sand pit, filled with a sleeping, shifting tangle of steamers, but no gravel nests, and the pens sat beyond, their entrance archway plain and simply cut, without the ornate details and the crest of the Dragon Guard that marked the entryway of the Guard's pen.

"Small riverslates," Myrtle noted, if doubtfully. "And… I don't know the others. Smaller." Dragons that would be shorter than Myrtle's shoulder, at the least, probably barely able to carry a dwarf's weight. 

Non-war dragons. 

"No servants," Bilbo murmured, blinking, as the other difference struck him. The Dragon Guard's grounds were fully staffed, with dwarves in grey tunics spotting the gravel ground and the pens. Here… no, he could see a couple of them, in the distance, near the entrance to the pens, but-

"Someone's coming!" Myrtle noted tensely, as a dwarf climbed out from the sandpit, rather to Bilbo's astonishment, dusting himself off, and adjusting a large wooly cap on his head, the flaps hanging down past his cheeks.

The dwarf had a large, curly moustache and a long pleat of hair, dressed simply in a brown vest and thick sleeves. Behind him, one of the unknown species of steamers also slipped out of the pile, following on the dwarf's heels, a small male. Like the other unknown steamers, he was a slate grey-blue in colour, with small horns and narrow eye ridges, and delicate, longer fingers to his claws than Myrtle's, with a narrower snout. His breath puffed out in a small cloud of steam, and his body, like steamers in general, was stocky, with a fat, stiff tail. 

"'ullo," the dwarf greeted them, in thickly accented Westron, once he was within hearing range, and he came to a respectful stop. Another omega - but of course. "You're the hobbit ambassador, aren't you? I'm Bofur, and this here's my companion, Ósorgr, at your service."

"I'm Myrtle Bramblescale," Myrtle could not quite hide her curiosity, looking the small dragon over. "And this is my companion, Bilbo Baggins. _We're_ the ambassadors from the Shire."

Ósorgr had made a fluting sound, his sails flaring a little in surprise, and Bofur's eyebrows rose. "Well, I did hear that the Shire dragon could speak Westron, but I wasn't expecting this."

"What, that we're educated?" Myrtle muttered, but Bilbo hastily put a hand on her flank, and she settled down reluctantly. The small male made an inquiring noise, wings curling up, and after a sullen moment, Myrtle replied in a series of chirps and whistles.

Bofur waited patiently until the dragons were done, without contributing, then he asked, mildly, "Is there a problem then, Master Baggins?"

"Oh, no, I just thought that I… I was um, curious about the other pens," Bilbo murmured, embarrassed now by the presumption that he would have been welcome. "I'm so very sorry for the intrusion."

"Ah." Bofur seemed to relax a little, and he glanced over at his shoulder at the steamers. "Well, what d'you want to know? Our digs ain't as fancy as where they've housed your Myrtle. Ain't that much to see."

"Isn't as 'fancy'?" Myrtle repeated, incredulous, "You mean it gets _worse?_ "

Bilbo winced. "That… that is to say, Myrtle and I aren't really used to this dragon pen system of yours. It's been a bit of a shock, and, uh-"

"It's quite all right," Bofur noted dryly, with a friendly enough smile. "I heard about that too. Seems your dragons live with you in your homes. Now _that_ sounds crazy to _us_ ," Bofur patted Ósorgr's flank as he said this, "Just like the talk of there being thousands of steamers over in the Shire."

Bilbo stifled a groan, and Myrtle stiffened. Had word spread _that_ quickly? "That's a Council matter."

"Sure," Bofur said, touching his hat, "But if you people ever could spare an egg or two, think of us, aye? We'll love to have a bit of new blood, and I've never seen a steamer like yours."

"Spare an _egg?_ " Myrtle hissed, mantling aggressively. "What, do you think that we trade with our _children?_ "

Other steamers had glanced up at them from the pits, and Bofur blinked rapidly, even as Ósorgr made a warbling, placating whistle. "Well," Bofur said hesitantly, "Only if you could spare one, and if it suits your breeding manifests-"

" _Breeding manifests?_ " Myrtle repeated, incredulous, but Bilbo patted her flanks, whispering nonsense to her, soothingly, until she finally lowered her head stiffly, eyes narrowed. 

"All right," Bofur said, after an awkward silence, "I guess I must'a put my foot in it again." Beside him, Ósorgr burbled a nearly inaudible noise, as though in agreement. "Well. Ah. I'm sorry if I said something t'anger you. I just help shift the mail between Erebor and the Iron Hills. Ain't much for big thoughts or sweet talking."

"Apology accepted," Bilbo said hastily, before Myrtle could make a comment, "There's just so much that we didn't know about your people. But do you… do you really trade in eggs? Really?"

"Well, um," Bofur was twisting at his sleeves now, clearly wary of Myrtle's temper, "Y'see, there's only a few hundred or so dragons here, and of that, maybe less than a third of them are, are steamers. So we've got t'be careful about crossing the bloodlines too much. It's about the same business with the other dwarven holds, although they've got fewer - Erebor's the largest dwarven hold, and y'see, most of the wee little dragons ain't very… um…"

"Valued?" Bilbo supplied, gently.

"Too small to fight orcs, only good for pushing parcels?" Bofur agreed dryly. "Heard it all, Master Baggins."

"But-" Myrtle growled, though she stopped when Bilbo pressed his hand to her forearm.

"I haven't seen a dragon like Ósorgr before," he said, with determined politeness.

"Ah, he's a… well, they're native to these mountains, we call them the _Bundushathur_. They fly well at high altitudes and do it quickest, they're smart, and they've got a big heart. Can't ask for a better companion," Bofur added, with a fierceness to his voice.

Myrtle opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap as Ósorgr nuzzled Bofur's back affectionately. "He understands Westron," Bilbo noted slowly.

"'Course he does," Bofur said proudly. "Khuzdul, too. He can speak a few words of either, and he knows most of our sign language, just by picking it up from me and the other couriers. He ain't stupid just because he's small."

Myrtle dipped her head, embarrassed, no doubt recalling her unkind comments on the first day, and said, in a small voice, "No he isn't, Master Bofur. I'm very glad to have met Ósorgr." She stumbled a little on the pronunciation of the little dragon's name, and flipped her sails flat against her back in embarrassment. The little dragon rocked back onto his haunches, churring in draconic laughter, made a series of fluting whistles, and laughed again, even as, beside him, Bofur tried and failed to hide a grin at whatever his dragon had said. 

"All right, I suppose I deserved that," Myrtle muttered, though she sounded rueful rather than offended. "I'm sorry for being so sharp, before."

"It's all right," Bofur assured her, "If Ósorgr even remembers to get mad later, I'll just fix up a little carving and he'll be good again." The little dragon snorted, butting Bofur in the side and shifting him a step. 

"He likes carvings? Oh! We do have a little something in my packs." Myrtle looked down to Bilbo for help. "It's rather too much to carry home all at once." Settling down on her belly, Myrtle watched as Bilbo fished out the little model of the rocking horse, handing it to her, and she passed it to Ósorgr sheepishly. "Here. I hope you like it."

"You're spoiling the market on dragon gifts," Bofur accused, if with a grin, as Ósorgr turned the little horse carefully over with his claws, running blunted claws over the intricate detail of the mane with awe. He glanced over at Bofur, as if to check that he could keep it, and when Bofur shrugged and nodded, the little dragon flared his wings and made a series of chirping, lilting warbles that ended with a set of clicking whistles, and Myrtle sat back, blinking.

"Oh, well, I, it's very nice of you to say so," she murmured awkwardly, and replied with a series of whistles.

"He's got a silver tongue, my lad," Bofur agreed, amused by the exchange, and Bilbo was reminded of Thorin, of what he had said: that to a trained ear, draconic was beautiful. So it was, Bilbo thought, as he stroked his palm over Myrtle's flank. 

"You'll have to translate for me later," Bilbo told Myrtle, with a smile, and she blinked at him in surprise. 

He stared for a moment, confused at her bewilderment, before he realized that he had never asked Myrtle to translate any draconic to him before. Most of the dragons in the Shire, after all, automatically just spoke Westron, and save for wanting to know how to speak Myrtle's draconic name, Bilbo had previously shown no real interest in Myrtle's birth tongue. The revelation shamed him, and Bilbo wondered if maybe - at least in this regard - maybe Thorin and the dwarves were right.

"Later," Myrtle promised, nuzzling his back, and he stroked her eye ridges in return. When she straightened back up, she asked Bofur, a little shyly, "Perhaps if we could be introduced to your other friends? I haven't really been able to talk to anyone. The, um, dragons in the Dragon Guard aren't, well, they're friendly, but-"

"They don't know what to make of you?" Bofur suggested, if kindly. At Myrtle's cautious nod, Bofur patted Ósorgr's arm, and the little dragon chirped, still holding the little horse carving possessively. "With that bribe, you could probably convince Ósorgr here to fly to Ered Luin for you and back. I think we can manage a few introductions."

Ósorgr chirped again, looking to Bofur, and Bofur nodded. The little dragon bowed solemnly to the both of them, then took off, darting towards the pens. Myrtle seemed a little confused, and Bofur elaborated, "He's going to put that in his stall, with his other things, then he'll be back." 

Turning to the pit, he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled in sharp bursts. A couple of the steamers looked at each other, as though bewildered, but others lumbered up to their haunches, and to Bilbo's surprise, a few other dwarves, previously hidden by the lip of the pit, were nosed up yawning to their feet, muttering and shoving at scaly snouts, brushing sand off their vests. One of them, Bilbo noted, with some horror, had a huge chunk of _metal_ sticking out of his forehead.

"Er… Master Bofur… I think your colleague has sustained a grievous injury…"

"Oh, that's just my cousin, Bifur. T'ain't nothing, just a wee bit of a flesh wound, and we just left it in since it didn't seem t'be troubling him none."

"But it's sticking out of his _head_."

"Aye," Bofur nodded cheerfully, "It does stand out a wee bit, doesn't it?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin had terrifying ideas of social propriety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally planning on drawing the dragons, but I'm lazy, I think. (Maybe in the future?) For those curious about my current concept, check out: 
> 
>  
> 
> from Monster Hunter. So:  
> 1\. Biggest Dragons: Fire Drake - Royal Red (Smaug)  
> 2\. Next Biggest Dragons: Other Fire Drakes (Unsure if want to come up with more species, eh, but I doubt more dragons like Smaug could fit in Erebor, unless they dug really deep).  
> 3\. Next Biggest Dragons: Cold Drakes (Northern dwarves? Haven't decided. White dragons with fur or feathers instead of scales).  
> 4\. Next: Etchers - Gray Stone dragon in that picture, maybe a few variant species  
> 5\. Next: Elven dragons: Eel-like dragon, various colours.  
> 6\. Next: Spiketails (Brownish red spiky dragon in that pic, just above the human).  
> 7\. Final: Steamers (Slightly smaller than the pinkish orange dragon, shorter neck, stockier body). 
> 
> Gah. I didn't want this fic to run this slowly T_T; we'll never get to the orc at this rate.

VII.

Unlike the Dragon Guard, who, save for Thorin, seemed carefully reserved, and never approached Bilbo to speak with him, Bofur and the other couriers were bluntly spoken and boisterous. As one, they seemed fiercely proud of their 'wee dragons', and ranged from being contemptuous to pitying of the few steamers large enough to be set to the Guard.

"Large enough for war, too small for glory," Bofur explained finally, when Bilbo pressed him again.

Myrtle was sitting primly on the sand to show willing, though upright enough such that no grains would get on any Brandywine cotton. She was speaking to the other steamers in warbling draconic, and seemed to be enjoying herself; Ósorgr, by dint of having first greeted her, seemed to have earned bragging rights, and the little dragon sat beside her, occasionally interjecting with fluting whistles, pleased as punch. Bofur's colleagues, including his cousin, had poor to average Westron, and had long tired of small talk, opting to sit around their steamers and join in with the draconic conversation, leaving Bofur and Bilbo sitting on the edge of the pit.

"What about the spiketails? They're Younger Scale, too."

"Eh, they're big and their hides are thick, good for battle," Bofur shrugged, "But they're Younger Scale, like you said. They go to the richer, almost-noble merchant omega sons and daughters, or soldiers who have proved their valour and such. The Old Scale all bond with the nobles."

"So how did you get chosen, if you don't mind me asking?" Bilbo asked hesitantly. "Erebor's densely populated, as far as I can tell, and if there are only a few hundred dragons…"

"Most unbonded dwarven omegas get by fine without a dragon," Bofur gestured at the couriers sitting in the sand. "We've got good laws and a support system. Omegas in their Time with no dragons take care of it themselves. If it gets bad, they can come down to the pens and lay up in a stall, sometimes the dragonscents help, and 'sides, in the pens, no alphas be about." Bofur paused, glancing at Bilbo. "Well-"

"I'm a special case," Bilbo noted wryly, inclining his head towards Myrtle.

"Right. So. Good system," Bofur muttered, a little awkwardly. "Though, it's uncommon for an omega to be unbonded. There are quite a few more dwarven alphas than there are omegas, and far more male dwarves than female dwarves. So, uh, female omegas tend to get bonded pretty quick. No funny business, o' course, lots of supervision, lots of suitors. Male omegas, eh," Bofur lifted a shoulder. "Lots of us get with an alpha as well, uh…"

"But the rest of you who are not interested in bonding with an alpha become couriers?" Bilbo asked, trying to understand.

"Some become the dragon staff. Those you see in gray tunics. Being more or less constantly around dragons really helps, and the pay is good," Bofur gestured at the few gray tunics near the entrance to the pen. "Some tough it out, especially those who ain't interested in a courier's life. The rest of us put our names in a lottery for _Bundushathur_ eggs, or other steamer eggs that be too small to hatch Guard dragons. I got Ósorgr when I was just a wee bit over a hundred years old." 

"But…" Bilbo frowned, "What if… but the egg…"

"Eh, we get introduced to the egg's dam first. If she doesn't like the look of you, it be her right to ask for another pick. We have to come by and help her out, pick up draconic if we haven't, learn the ways." Bofur looked over to Ósorgr affectionately. "I must'a spent all of his five months in the egg chattering nonsense to him, I was that nervous. He knew my name when he hatched." Bofur's eyes were distant now, his smile a little foolish. "Best day of my life."

Bilbo said nothing, watching Ósorgr instead, as the little dragon made another series of soft whistles that made his audience laugh. The dwarves' system would be considered totally barbaric in the Shire, but he supposed that they did have far fewer dragons. A lottery in these circumstances was probably fairer-

"What was it like for you?" Bofur asked, glancing over. "If you don't mind me asking."

"In the Shire," Bilbo gestured helplessly, "Dragons hatch in their dam's home. They can bond whenever they like, in theory, but in practice, it's only done when they're old enough to fly. Some dragons don't choose to bond until they're full-grown. It's a big decision for the dragon to make, and they usually bond within the family. Hobbits have very, very big families."

"There weren't any omegas about in your case?" 

Bilbo took in a deep breath. Bofur's question was totally innocent, after all. "There's no system of preferential bonding in the Shire. Myrtle's line has been with my family - the Baggins clan - for longer than anyone can remember. Her dam was bonded to my uncle. We've been friends since she was a hatchling, but she only chose me after she could fly." 

He had been hoping that Myrtle would ask - hoping for _years_ , he remembered that much. They had been best friends, but there were omega cousins in the clan who had been angling to be chosen, and the older folk, as well as the blasted Sackville-Bagginses, had been trying to push Myrtle to pick one of them. Thankfully she had been stubborn about it. Dear Myrtle! 

"Oh," Bofur said, obviously confused, then he added, thoughtfully, "It's a big world out there." 

"That it is, Master Bofur," Bilbo agreed, "Did you know, I was told this morning that the elven dragons don't speak draconic?" 

"But that's-" Bofur began, frowned, and glanced up and over his shoulder. A dark shadow was scudding over the packed dirt, and the chatter in the sand grew hushed. An etcher was circling above, dropping gradually lower, until it landed with an earth-shaking impact that nearly swept Bilbo off the lip and into the sand, its great wings churning up the loose sand. 

The etchers' stalls had been in a separate area, away from the general stalls, and Bilbo had never seen one this close. It towered far above him, like stone made flesh, its gigantic body seemingly a single miniature mountain range of jagged spikes and chunks of bone that looked hewn out of rock. Bilbo could not tell what gender the dragon was; he could only stare in awe at the rows of swordlike teeth, the curved tusks longer than he was tall. 

The etcher was wearing a single saddle, on a beautifully tooled leather collar around its massive neck, worked through with gold twists and gems. From the saddle, Bilbo could barely make out the rider, stepping off out into space, and as Bilbo scrambled to his feet with a gasp, thinking that there was about to be a horrific accident, the etcher arrested its companion's fall with a clawed palm, and gently lowered the dwarf to the ground. 

It was Dwalin. "That's Aðalstein," Myrtle muttered, back at his side, stumbling over the pronunciation. "He's one of the oldest of the etchers. Not very friendly."

Indeed, Aðalstein swept the steamers with one solemn glance, then seemed to ignore them, looking up to the slopes instead, where the elven dragons still lay curled under the snow. 

"Master Dwalin," Bilbo greeted Dwalin, once the dwarf was at a respectable distance. "Well met."

Dwalin's lips were thinned, and he nodded curtly at Bilbo by way of response. "So here you are. They've been looking all over the mountain for you."

"Well, uh, it's very, um, kind of you to join the search," Bilbo said awkwardly, blinking. Surely a missing ambassador didn't warrant rousing one of the Old Scale. 

"King's orders," Dwalin said tersely. "Don't run off by yourself again." 

Myrtle bristled, but Bilbo swallowed his own irritation. "Of course. My apologies. I'll make sure to inform someone of my whereabouts next time."

Dwalin frowned, glowering at Bilbo, then he crooked his fingers. "A word, Master hobbit." 

"Please excuse me," Bilbo told Bofur politely, but Bofur was already nodding and retreating to the huddle of steamers. Bilbo walked forward, Myrtle at his side, and Dwalin glanced at Myrtle for a moment before evidently deciding that excluding her wasn't necessary.

They had walked almost to the etcher's huge clawed feet when Dwalin finally turned around, fists curled. "You've been… friendly with Ori."

Bilbo stared, surprised. He had been expecting a further lecture about gallivanting off without a word, and this blindsided him; beside him, Myrtle's wings flipped open briefly, equally bewildered. "Um, yes? He's very pleasant. And he's a very good scribe."

Dwalin narrowed his eyes. "You're not to associate with him further."

"What? Why on earth not?"

This time, Dwalin hesitated for a long moment before growling, "You're here as an ambassador, Master hobbit. Ori is only a librarian's assistant-"

"We don't have class systems in the Shire," Bilbo interrupted stiffly, trying to keep a hold on his temper, even as Myrtle began to shift her feet, agitated. "Ori's good company, and we were borrowing books from the library."

"A servant can get your books for you."

"Perhaps I wasn't being clear, Master Dwalin," Bilbo said flatly. "I'll make friends with whoever I please. I'm here to represent the Shire, but outside of Council business, my time is my own."

Dwalin stiffened under the sharpness in Bilbo's voice, baring his teeth, and usually, Bilbo would have apologised. Dragon-bonded or not, he would usually never have taken such a tone with an omega - it wasn't considered very polite - but he was growing annoyed on Ori's behalf despite himself.

Behind Dwalin, Aðalstein rumbled, a low and booming sound that shook the ground under Bilbo's feet, just on the edge of menace, and Myrtle - bless her heart - instead of cowering down, actually straightened to her full height, mantling, too angry to be afraid. 

Dwalin eyed Myrtle with visible surprise, though it was gone quickly, his expression stony again as his lip curled, and he snapped, "You have been warned." Before Bilbo could respond, Dwalin made a whistling sound, and Aðalstein took a heavy, thundering step back, reaching down with a clawed hand. Dwalin pulled himself up onto a jagged talon, agile despite his armour, and was brought up and out of sight. 

Bofur edged up beside Bilbo after Aðalstein had leaped ponderously up into the sky, churning a vast backdraft in his wake, and Myrtle relaxed, shaking under Bilbo's petting, wide-eyed. 

"Well, I never would'a believed it," Bofur said finally, blinking slowly. "Standing up to one of the Old Scale, by Mahal!" 

"I was angry," Myrtle said wanly, though she lowered her head to let Bilbo stroke her horns and ridges reassuringly. 

"You were very brave," Bilbo told her firmly, feeling weak-kneed about it himself. "What the hell was all that about?"

"What was?" Bofur asked, blinking. "What did Master Dwalin say to you?"

"He told us not to talk to Ori, the librarian," Bilbo noted, puzzled and annoyed all over again. "That was rather rude of him. Why should he concern himself with whom I speak to? Why… why, to date, I think I've enjoyed speaking to you and your friends more than all the fancy noble-born folk I've been introduced to."

"And I," Myrtle added stoutly.

"Ah," Bofur said, as though understanding, then he smirked. "It's not my place to tell. But you and your Myrtle are more than welcome back here. Especially after that stunt you pulled." 

"We'll better go and see if we've been very missed," Bilbo said quickly, as the other dwarves edged cautiously out of the pit, as though expecting the etcher to return at any moment. He had probably made enough of a diplomatic mess for one day.

VIII.

Ori, at least, had been very pleased with his new scarf, which Bilbo had slipped to him over the counter in the library after he had popped over to return the poetry book after dinner. He borrowed another Westron tome - some sort of adventure story, by the looks of it - and slunk back to the dragon pen, feeling like a thief.

From the flat stares that he got from the recruits at the gate, it seemed that word had gotten around anyway, even though he had asked Bofur and the others to keep the spot of drama to themselves, and Myrtle sighed when Bilbo let himself into her stall.

"None of the other dragons will even speak to me now," she complained, when Bilbo sat down on a hay bale beside her. "But this wasn't even our fault! _We_ weren't the ones who picked that fight!"

"No, it wasn't," Bilbo agreed, handing her the book as a peace offering, and she took him from him without opening it, wings drooping. Myrtle was very sociable in the Shire, and the sudden complete isolation seemed to be weighing down on her mood. "And it's rather rude of them. Why, if Bard hadn't asked me to wait for Gandalf…" He hated seeing Myrtle unhappy. 

Myrtle blew out a whistling sigh. "We can't leave. I suppose tomorrow if council is back in session, I'll just go and talk to Ósorgr and the others. At least _they're_ nice." 

"I'll stay here with you tonight," Bilbo decided firmly, just as there was a knock on the door. It turned out to be Thorin, and Bilbo, still a trifle irritated by Myrtle's ill treatment, asked shortly, "Now what is it?" 

Thorin narrowed his eyes at Bilbo's tone, hands curling, but when he spoke, his tone was neutral. "Earlier today, did you truly face down Dwalin and Aðalstein?"

Bilbo groaned, rubbing a palm over his face, and it fell to Myrtle to mutter, "Well, he was being rather rude. _We_ didn't start it."

Thorin stared searchingly at them for a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, then he noted, "Dwalin often speaks bluntly. I hope that this regrettable incident has not soured you to our war."

The words were wooden, as though memorised by rote, and Bilbo wondered if Thorin had drawn the short straw, sent here on his pride to apologize for something that was not even of his doing. "It wasn't _your_ fault," Bilbo retorted. "And as far as we're concerned, Dwalin's behaviour is only but one element that is very quickly 'souring' us to your war."

"Then tell me how we can make amends," Thorin said, a touch more earnestly.

"Frankly, I can't think of anything," Bilbo muttered, too weary and too annoyed to be diplomatic, "To tell you the truth, we're only still here because we're waiting for Gandalf to arrive. After we speak with him, I think we'll head back to the Shire."

"That's…" Thorin hesitated, as though searching his vocabulary, then he settled on, "Unfortunate," so tentatively that despite himself, Bilbo began to grin, and then to laugh, and Thorin frowned at him until he caught hold of himself and swallowed his mirth.

"Thorin, I'm very sorry that you've been dragged into this, but in the Shire, a third party apology isn't really worth very much. We do appreciate the effort, though."

"Dwalin will not apologize," Thorin observed, after another pause, then glanced about, and pitched his voice lower. "He has long had an… interest in Master Ori."

Bilbo stared at Thorin blankly, "An interest?" while beside him, Myrtle whistled softly in surprise, "That mean old dwarf?"

"He is neither old nor mean," Thorin retorted defensively, and Bilbo, finally understanding, blinked rapidly. 

"He could have said _that_ instead of implying that I wasn't to talk to Ori because of some sort of _class_ issue!"

"Dwalin is not," Thorin began, frowned to himself, then picked at his bracers, "Not often diplomatic, as I said."

"Well, um," Bilbo shook his head slowly, "You can tell him that he needn't worry. Ori's a nice young dwarf, but he's an alpha, and I don't lean that way. Not that there's anything wrong with it, of course." And Ori seemed so intimidated by Dwalin! Bilbo wasn't sure whether to feel sorry for Ori, Dwalin, or for the both of them.

"But the both of you have exchanged gifts," Thorin seemed surprised.

Oh. _Oh_. Bilbo fought the urge to laugh out loud again, even if Myrtle made a suspicious coughing sound, and he managed to state, steadily, "Well, um, I did give your King a chest of gifts from the Shire, and received a very lovely box of things in return. We're hardly betrothed now, are we?"

Thorin, hilariously enough, looked as though he had swallowed a rat. "That was diplomatic business. And you did ask me about courting before you presented that scroll to Myrtle and I thought-"

"I asked you because Ori was asking me about it, and I wanted to check that I hadn't given him the wrong advice," Bilbo cut in firmly. "He's interested in some omega and he had some questions, that's all." 

" _Which _omega?"__

__"He didn't say, and given how anxious he was about it, I trust you won't go and shake it out of him. In fact, I probably shouldn't have mentioned it at all. Please don't go spreading it around."_ _

__"But Dwalin-"_ _

__"By the Valar, don't tell _Dwalin_." That wasn't going to end well. "Ori seemed afraid enough of him, and besides," Bilbo added sourly, "I don't think it was very nice of him to fly that intimidatingly huge etcher over just to talk to me. He could've walked."_ _

__"Aðalstein is protective of the House of Fundin - Dwalin's line," Thorin shrugged, and again there was that odd wistfulness in his tone. "He will not even permit Balin - Dwalin's older brother - to leave Erebor without being present to see to his safety, and Balin is an alpha."_ _

__Bilbo recalled the answering rumble in the dark, that time when Myrtle had snapped at Dwalin, and grimaced. They were lucky not to have been squashed. "Is that common? Your dragon seems fine about letting you outdoors by yourself."_ _

__"I have no dragon," Thorin said shortly, his expression going stormy for a moment before he controlled his features._ _

__"But-" Myrtle chirped, surprised._ _

__"There is a dragon in my line," Thorin corrected himself, his tone flat, "But he bears no love for me. Eventually we will bond out of duty and the rules of succession, for I am the only omega left in my generation in my House, but until then his disfavour is well known. Few of the other dragons will speak to me, and none will carry me; if he has his way, I will never know what it is like to fly."_ _

__Myrtle rocked back on her haunches, sails flaring, and it took Bilbo a while to venture, "That seems harsh. Surely-"_ _

__"I had a brother," Thorin said abruptly, as though deciding on impulse to share. "He had golden hair, like a lion's mane. Unusual for a dwarf, but it runs now and then in my line. The founder of my House was our dragon's First, and he had golden hair; our dragon has always favoured those of us born with golden hair. When we were younger, and stupid, we ventured too far south on a dare, and chanced on an orc raiding party in the mountains. I barely survived. My brother and most of our guards did not."_ _

__"But it was not your fault either, that the orcs were there," Myrtle protested._ _

__"I knew that the south was still wild. I should not have accepted his dare." Thorin exhaled heavily. "But regardless of whose fault it truly was, or just cruel fate, dragons do not forgive, and they do not forget."_ _

__Later, when Thorin had excused himself and Bilbo had curled up against Myrtle under the saddle blanket, she whispered, "Now I think I know why Thorin was following me around on that first day."_ _

__"You spoke to him?" It had seemed a little incongruous that one of the Dragon Guard and not the servants had tried to attend to Myrtle, but Bilbo had been far more concerned at that point about Myrtle's state of mind than the details._ _

__"I'm afraid that I made a bit of a scene when I saw the stall," Myrtle said apologetically. "Thorin happened to be nearby, and he asked me to calm down in draconic while I was avoiding the servants. I told him at length exactly what I thought about that. He seemed surprised, and then after that, I couldn't shake him."_ _

__"Poor Thorin," Bilbo murmured. What a mess!_ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori and Dwalin? Opposites attract, or so Bilbo had been told, but this was quite possibly pushing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a quick sketch of Bilbo and Myrtle, growing up as best friends... :3
> 
>  

IX.

Bilbo had been heading back towards the pens when Ori had stepped out of nowhere - yet again - this time giving him such a shock that he had yelped.

"I'm so sorry!" Ori kept whispering, as he led Bilbo past the libraries and higher up into the residential tiers, further away from the Court districts. The corridors and stairways grew steadily less ornate, with fewer ornamental archways and looming statues, until the steps and the walls were plain cut, if sturdy and well built. 

"It's quite all right," Bilbo replied absently, looking curiously around himself. "Where are we headed, by the way?"

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," Ori blushed a deep, beet red, and came to an abrupt stop. "Um, er, would you please, like to come over to my home for tea? My brothers won't be home until later."

"We're already on our way to your home," Bilbo noted, with a grin. "And I'll love to," he added, when Ori sputtered a little and hunched his shoulders in mortification. As he followed Ori deeper into the upper tiers, he remembered Thorin's words, and smiled to himself. Dwalin and Ori, indeed! They could not be more different if they tried. 

Unlike Dale, where the richer houses and villas had stood higher up in the fortifications, with the castle at the peak, Erebor seemed built in the inverse; the residential tiers that were higher up the mountain seemed shabbier. Ori's house was so high up that Bilbo felt a sense of vertigo when he looked past the end of the tier and downwards, into the vast rings and hives of light that made up the greatest city of the dwarves. Far below, in the bowels of the mountain, was an eternal ruddy glow, that painted the depths a rich sunset red and orange. Dragonfire in the Foundries, Bilbo surmised, and backed away from the ledge with a shudder. 

Ori's home was smaller than Bag End, judging from what he could see of the branching rooms, and crowded with possessions; framed drawings dotted the walls, interspersed with carvings and ornaments tooled out of scraps. In pride of place, within full sight of the large table in the centre of the main chamber, was a framed document, runic letters worked out in flowing gold, a red wax seal set in a corner that was the size of Bilbo's fist.

"My apprenticeship certificate," Ori said proudly, when he saw Bilbo staring. "Have a seat, I'll put the kettle on." 

"Did you want to talk to me about something else?" Bilbo asked gently, when they had wormed their way through half an hour of small talk, and a pleasant mint tea had been doled out.

"Oh, uh, well," Ori murmured, spots of colour dotting his cheeks, "I heard a… that is to say, my brother Nori heard a rumour in the taverns that you… that is to say, Myrtle and… and Master Dwalin and Aðalstein…"

"Valar save me," Bilbo sighed loudly, burying his head in his hands. "I _told_ Bofur and the others not to spread it about!"

"Did you really challenge him to a duel?"

"What?" Bilbo yelped. "Why would I… how did… _what_ have you heard?"

"I thought not," Ori noted, relieved, smiling now. "Nori's heard at least ten different versions of the story by now."

"Do I want to know what they are?" Horrified fascination had taken root. 

"Most of them generally agree that Master Dwalin must have said something insulting," Ori admitted. "He's… rather well known for that. The money's on whether he said something about the Shire, or about you, or your dragon."

"Ah," Bilbo nodded, relieved that the true story hadn't leaked. Perhaps one of the servants had spread it about, not Bofur and the others. "Yes, he was insulting, and yes, I've been assured by a mutual friend that he won't apologize. Myrtle and I are quite over it."

"All right," Ori smiled warmly. "I was worried. You see, Nori likes to joke that anyone I give a present to runs afoul of Master Dwalin sooner or later. I don't believe that, of course, but he already didn't seem to like the both of you, so, um, I'm glad to see that nothing happened."

So Dwalin had overreacted to other incidents in the past. Was Ori really that oblivious? Bilbo stared at Ori's face, searchingly, but could only see a guileless earnestness, and gave up. "Um… just out of curiosity, when did these Dwalin-related coincidences start?"

"Scribe apprenticeships are awarded yearly, but the masters are strict, and usually only one or two dwarves will qualify," Ori explained. "Um, at the award ceremony - that was a year ago, a member of all the noble Houses attends, including the House of Durin. That's the first time I ever saw Master Dwalin." His face fell a little. "Prestigious as the apprenticeship is, apprenticeships don't actually pay well, since they, um, usually go to scions from the noble Houses. So I've had to work on the side and practice my craft only at night."

"If you don't qualify for Master soon, I'll be very surprised," Bilbo said honestly. A whole year? Dwalin was either very hopeless, or Ori was extremely oblivious, or both. And besides, Bilbo was fairly sure that what Dwalin was doing at least qualified as aggressive stalking. He'll have to speak to Thorin about it, perhaps. 

"Oh no, I still have a long way to go," Ori protested quickly, then he looked around the house again, as if waiting to see if anyone was about to come home, then he lowered his voice. "Master Baggins-"

"Bilbo."

"… Bilbo… um, about my questions, before…" Ori began to waver.

"I mentioned family?" At Ori's nod, Bilbo noted, dryly, "The Shire has no concept of a noble class, Ori. What I meant was that many of these families have long standing feuds, often over silly little things."

"Ah," Ori nodded, understanding. 

"If you're looking at an omega who is noble-born…" Ori's face froze, and he squirmed, but Bilbo continued, "Well, I've been told that there are procedures of some sort for your people."

"Noble families try to have at least two children," Ori murmured, again with a glance around the house. "At least one omega. For their dragon, you see. But there must be further succession, so, um, a female omega often marries quickly and has children. Male omegas tend to bond with alpha females, um, er, unless their siblings have children, and er…"

"I'm quite lost," Bilbo admitted, confused by Ori's ramble, "And I'm not so sure how I can be of any help whatsoever."

"Well, er," Ori hunched into himself, a little red-faced, then he blurted out, "What Master Dwalin said to you… did he ask you to bond with him?"

" _What?_ " Bilbo sputtered, "I never… how did that even… where did… you mean that was an actual rumour in circulation?"

"Um, you see," Ori mumbled, "Some people were wondering why Aðalstein didn't just knock Myrtle over."

"The King still wants my help," Bilbo pointed out sourly. "In fact, all he spent all of today's Council meeting asking me questions about the Shire!" Legolas had not been in attendance, and although Arton had shown some polite curiosity, even Bard had grown bored after Bilbo carefully and patiently stuck to non-committal answers.

"So, er, you and Master Dwalin, never-"

" _Never_."

Ori sank back into his seat with visible relief, and Bilbo stared at him, puzzled for a long moment, before things slowly clicked into a horrible sort of revelation. "Ori, this omega whom you're interested in, it's not… Master Dwalin, is it?"

There was a flinch, then Ori squared his shoulders, his alpha-born defiance flashing in his eyes. "What about it?" 

"It's… rather a surprise," Bilbo kept his tone even and calm, and Ori instantly deflated, ducking his head. 

"Sorry! I just, my brothers, I think they know about it, and they're always carrying on about Master Dwalin does this, and that, and I think they lie most of the time and-"

"But not always?"

"No one is perfect." 

Bilbo took a fortifying gulp of his cooling tea, still reeling. "Well, er, if you, um, feel that way, why don't you just talk to Dwalin? Or give him something?"

"I've already tried that. He doesn't like me, and he definitely doesn't like Nori."

"I've been told by a mutual friend that he certainly doesn't dislike you," Bilbo tried. 

"No, I'm sure of it," Ori said gloomily. "I gave him a gift once. I spent a month working on the lettering. He didn't even look at it - he passed it to his brother Master Balin and kept on walking. I mean, I know Aðalstein expects Master Dwalin or Master Balin to beget heirs, and I'm nowhere near noble-born, but my apprenticeship does give me some status, and I wouldn't have minded, um… waiting until Master Balin, er, if at all…"

"This is too complicated for my poor head," Bilbo rubbed at his eyes. "And I still have no idea how I can help you."

"You've been a great help just listening to me," Ori disagreed, managing a wan smile. "I was just wondering about what had happened, that's all. I'm sorry to have dropped all my problems on you. I haven't even known you for very long." 

"All right," Bilbo said doubtfully. "Um. Good luck. I think you'll need it on this one." He hadn't the heart to tell Ori that if Dwalin had treated Ori's gift so curtly, then in Bilbo's opinion, Ori could do much better looking elsewhere.

X.

The days passed slowly. Dwarves and Elves were nothing if patient, and only Bard seemed to regard the increasingly repetitive Council meetings with anything close to dread. Though, then again, Bilbo did feel sorry for the King of Dale - of all the races present at the table, Man was the shortest lived - in the fierce, brief spark of their lives, patience often wound thinnest.

"Training for war takes months - years, to be safe," Bard cut in finally, one day. "Perhaps longer for dragons. Focusing all our attentions and hopes on the Shire may not be wise." 

_Thank you, Bard_ , Bilbo thought silently, though he was careful to try not to show any outward relief. Where _was_ Gandalf?

Above, behind the throne, Smaug snorted, the scorching heat of his breath making Bilbo sweat in his clothes, but Arton smiled mirthlessly, even as Thrór glanced over at Bard with an arched eyebrow. "An army of two thousand steamers, King Bard," he stated, as though that was self-explanatory.

"Their riders and dragons untrained, to face the orc hordes?"

Annoyingly enough, Thrór exchanged glances with Arton, who tipped his head almost imperceptibly. "The race of Men would not be familiar with the mechanics of aerial combat, your Majesty," the elf ambassador observed. "Particularly given their closest allies' penchant for secrecy."

Thrór didn't rise to the bait. "As the firedrakes breathe dragonfire, the etchers spit acid, and the spiketails's spikes can slice through even the thickest dragonscale, the steamers breathe jets of wet steam. Deadly against goblins, but not very effective against the orcs, particularly those mounted on wargs." 

"So…" Bard began, looking as confused as Bilbo.

"Wet steam extinguishes dragonfire, Bard," Thrór stated gruffly. "An army of steamers will greatly incapacitate the bone dragons - Arton has mentioned that they breathe dragonfire. Steamers are also quick and agile, and can serve as flanking support for spiketail teams. Without an aerial threat, our firedrakes and etchers will make short work of any ground army. I trust that this serves to clarify our interest in the Shire?"

"It does," Bard inclined his head, though he shot Bilbo a briefly apologetic glance. "But who would house and train this army? Are your pens even equipped to handle an influx of steamers?"

"Trainers can be sent to the Shire," Thrór shrugged. "And Master Baggins has waxed eloquent on its natural bounty. They can feed and supply themselves, and if need be, can arrive on the battlefield within days." 

Trainers sent to the Shire indeed! Bilbo tried to imagine any Shire dragons - save those with the Tooks and the Brandybucks perhaps - willingly participating in military exercises, and had to swallow a laugh at the thought. "But when will you need this 'army'? Surely we are far too untrained to be of any use," he told King Thrór instead. 

"Better than nothing at all," Thrór retorted, and behind him, Smaug rumbled an assent that made Bilbo's teeth rattle. 

Bilbo was in a poor mood when he made it back to the pens. Myrtle had settled into a routine that seemed to suit her; she spent most of the day with Bofur and the others, and returned late in the afternoon to sit under one of the fir trees, talking to Thorin.

The young noble-born dwarf had patiently wormed his way back into Myrtle's good graces, through bribery for the main part, always bringing something curious and delicious from the kitchens. And Bilbo supposed that Thorin was pleasant company. He was intelligent and well-read, and rather more diplomatic than Bofur, who occasionally still accidentally 'put his foot in it', making for a slew of awkward moments. 

"We should go," Bilbo told Myrtle, as she nuzzled his back in greeting. "Blast these dwarves… sorry, Thorin… they mean to send trainers to the Shire!"

"Why, only the Tooks and the Brandybucks will cooperate, and even so, only for a lark!" Myrtle blinked, surprised. "What on earth do they expect us to do?"

"Put out dragonfire, apparently," Bilbo muttered sourly, sitting down against the bark with a huff. "We'll be scorched to a crisp in mid air!" 

"Actually," Thorin disagreed mildly, "Steamers are the fastest dragons. With training, enough steamers can quickly lock down a firedrake and harass it into retreat. If the firedrake isn't careful, the steam might even grow superheated, and cause great damage to its snout or eyes." At Bilbo's surprised glance, Thorin's lip curled. "The dragon in my line is a firedrake, Bilbo. We all know their strengths and weaknesses." 

"Oh." Bilbo glanced at his hands, feeling off-balance, even as Myrtle whistled, equally bewildered. Neither of them had ever thought that steamers would have any chance against a _firedrake_. "But we aren't facing firedrakes. I don't think that undead dragons will retreat, or care very much about damaged eyes." 

"The Dragon Guard have been working out a set of tactics against those," Thorin nodded comfortably. "Spiketails can sunder bone just as easily as dragonhide. A concerted attack against joints, perhaps, or acid from the etchers. But they'll need to get close. That was the problem."

"Where are these bone dragons even coming from?" Myrtle asked, puzzled. "I thought that the Old Scale are immortal."

"They are immortal but not invulnerable," Thorin agreed. "The main speculation is that the orcs have gathered the old bones of wild dragons, back from before the companionship system, when they used to fight vicious battles with each other over territory. The elven dragons slew quite a few as well, in preserving their territories." Thorin lifted a shoulder into a shrug. "Arguments about old necklaces aside, it is the main reason behind our ancient enmity. Our dragons have old memories."

"It wasn't mentioned in the Council," Bilbo noted, surprised.

"Nor would it be. It is not a period of time of which our dragons are proud, but even so, it is not one which some of them have forgotten." 

"That makes sense," Myrtle glanced up at the slopes, as though trying to imagine the graceful serpentine form curled on the snow at war with something as gigantic and as fearsome as a firedrake. "Oh, and Thorin gave me something very nice today." Myrtle turned, picking up a small cloth-wrapped packet beside her, and passing it to Bilbo. "See that? Isn't it pretty?"

It was silver… no, some sort of white gold alloy, sturdy and gleaming in the late afternoon sun, a gorgeous trellis of interwoven myrtle branches with their large, fat leaves. It was a very rich gift, and Bilbo stared at it for a long moment, blinking. Did Thorin mean…? 

Bilbo glanced over at Thorin, but the young dwarf was looking at the buckle, as though avoiding his eyes. "I hope that you both like it," he said quietly. "And that it contributes even a little towards persuading you to stay. The war weighs heavily on the mind of the King, and he is often blunt."

Oh. Bilbo relaxed a little, trying to slow down his heartbeat. Thorin was good company, and Bilbo did like his scent, but he had never considered the possibility of something more than friendship until this very point. He was surprised to feel a little disappointed in Thorin's explanation, but that was silly of him. The Guard had perhaps a higher stake in this war than most, and they did seem to close ranks quickly, and besides, Thorin was noble-born. Ori's rambling discussion of the intricacies of bonding politics for the noble-born still confused him.

"I do like it," Bilbo said carefully, wrapping it again and handing it back to Myrtle. "And I think that Myrtle does, as well. We'll wait for Gandalf, as before. After that, we'll see."

Thorin's jaw clenched, and he didn't look up to meet Bilbo's eyes, averting his gaze to the dragon pens, instead. Perhaps he felt that he had failed, Bilbo thought, in a rush of sympathy, exchanging looks with Myrtle, who was glancing between the both of them, seemingly bewildered. It was good to see that even someone like Thorin, ill treated by his dragon and mostly ignored by the Guard dragons, cared this much about their cause still. 

On an impulse, Bilbo reached over to press his hand over Thorin's knee, patting it, the way he would gentle one of his spooked omega nieces or nephews during a thunderstorm, and when he felt Thorin tense up, he hastily removed his palm. "Thank you for the gift. We'll, um, put it to good use."

Myrtle nodded her agreement, but Thorin said, quietly, "Metalwork is not to your taste?" 

"No, no, it's very pretty," Myrtle interjected hastily. "Um. Very delicate work. You certainly should be proud of it."

Thorin nodded, and was polite but distracted until he finally had to leave - something about a Guard roster - and Myrtle stayed beside Bilbo under the tree, watching Thorin go until he had disappeared into the pens. 

"Did he just…?" Myrtle asked, hushed. 

"I doubt it. The Guard needs us. And over the last few days he's been careful to check whether we've been further offended by anything, remember?"

"Right." Myrtle opened the packet again, looking at the buckle. "I didn't really have the heart to tell him that we prefer books and paintings to trinkets," she whispered. "You know that I only made that fuss about our saddle buckles because the set was from your mother."

"It was very nice of him," Bilbo murmured in return. "And you could have brought up his gift when I first arrived."

"I know, but you seemed so upset over something that it slipped my mind," Myrtle nuzzled him guiltily. "And I hadn't been very sure what to make of it. He did say that noble-born folk had procedures, so I thought it was probably um, just a present, like those shopkeepers in Dale and Ori."

"Yes, exactly." 

"He _is_ rather nice, though," Myrtle added slyly, and laughed when Bilbo glowered at her. 

"If he ever showed any real interest in me, you'll change your tune quickly." Myrtle had always been highly critical of anyone who really did come courting or catch Bilbo's eye: not that it was unusual. Dragons often jealously hoarded their companions' attentions.

"Well," she huffed, "He's a sight less flighty than that Brandybuck lass and isn't _boring_ like that Chubb boy or full of airs like that Whitfoot-"

" _Myrtle_."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scale gifts are certainly unhygienic.

XI.

Despite the opinion of certain Sackville-Baggins cousins, Bilbo was not, in fact, a complete idiot, and after a week of Thorin's increasingly awkward behaviour he was almost certain that the buckle had been precisely what it had first seemed - a courting gift.

A few circumspect enquiries - asking Thorin how old he was, and then asking Ori about dwarven ages - indicated that Thorin was not very much older than Ori, but both were considered to be past the age of majority, if barely. He also had at least three decades on Bilbo's own age: dwarves were long lived, and like the mountain that they called home, they seemed to weather time and maturity very slowly. 

Dwalin, as it turned out, was also around Thorin's age, which led to another slight misunderstanding between Bilbo and Ori that had left him with a bit of a headache. Ori had blushed and apologized when Bilbo had offered to sign a declaration stating that he had no interest in Dwalin whatsoever, in blood if necessary, and that seemed to have cleared it up. 

Hopefully.

As unprepossessing, polite and shy as Ori seemed to be at the best of times, it was so very easy to keep forgetting that he was a young alpha, and as such, still so very instinctively territorial. 

As he thought about it, the most surprising thing was not, in fact, that Bilbo seemed to be in the midst of being (very badly and self-consciously) courted by a noble-born unbonded dwarven omega, but that Myrtle had so far raised no real objection to it. "I like Thorin," she said primly, when Bilbo remarked as much one night during dinner in her stall. "He brings me good pies." 

"To think that all it took to get past Myrtle Bramblescale's notorious Standards was a bit of fish pie and tea," Bilbo marvelled, and got a light thwack against his flank with the flat of Myrtle's tail for his trouble.

"The only bit that confuses me is how he's younger and older than you at the same time," Myrtle admitted. "Or so you tell me."

"In dwarven years, he's barely out of his tweens." 

"But in hobbit years, he's at a quite respectable age to start getting called on," Myrtle ruffled her wings. "And I'm personally more interested in hobbit years than dwarven years." 

Bilbo decided to give up on that topic for now; it only confused Myrtle. "Should I tell him that we've figured it out?"

"No, no," Myrtle said, just as primly, taking a sip of her tea as Bilbo cleared the dishes onto the tray, "If he can't even muster the courage to tell you about it, then I don't see how he'll be any good."

And there it was. Myrtle's Standards. Bilbo hid a grin. "I don't like being cruel."

"Well," Myrtle dipped her head, bringing her snout closer to Bilbo and lowering her voice, "That and we _were_ planning on leaving once Gandalf gets here, weren't we? It's not very nice leading someone on." 

That was true - and it was precisely the reason why Bilbo had chosen not to respond in kind to Thorin's increasingly inventive approach to gifts. Dwarves were a notoriously stubborn race, after all, and after a couple of other attempts at metalwork gifts had been received only politely, Thorin had resorted to bribing Myrtle with food and books. It seemed that his noble-born family had an extensive collection of its own. 

"We've discussed leaving in front of him before, haven't we?"

"Many times."

Bilbo sighed. Right then. As far as he was concerned, there had been a rather unsubtle degree of full and frank disclosure. But then, Thorin was young - for a dwarf, anyway - and as pleasant as his company could be… hobbits were not, as a rule, against casual relationships, even past the tween years, but it wasn't really considered respectable at his age. Especially in the case of an older, dragon-bonded alpha and a young unbonded omega-

"It can't be helped," Myrtle decided philosophically. "Thorin is an adult, in any case, and is more than capable of making his own decisions. But if it's starting to annoy you, then I'll tell him to go away," she added conscientiously.

"We'll leave it for now," Bilbo decided, "But we won't encourage it. I don't want to have to deal with any additional drama before we leave." An angry noble House, for example. Bilbo grimaced. By the Valar, as though things weren't complicated enough!

He ended up talking to Myrtle through the night, finally sleeping curled on the hay against her flank, and woke with a start during the morning at the sound of a rap on the stall door. "Come in," Myrtle called, with a pointed glance at Bilbo as he sat up, yawning and rubbing his eyes, then he let out a yelp when Dwalin pushed into the stall. 

He glowered at them for a moment, looking over the unruly mess of Bilbo's hair and the straw that was sticking through it and over his clothes, and growled, "Come with me. Both of you."

" _Now?_ "

"Now," Dwalin said firmly, and waited while Bilbo hastily brushed off as much straw as he could from his hair and clothes, washed his face in the basin of water in the stall, and brushed down Myrtle, who was growing more and more anxious by the minute and starting to fuss. He trailed after Dwalin in his rumpled clothes, still fighting yawns, squinting at the pale light from beyond the pens. It was only barely dawn. What in the world…? 

"What's happening?" Myrtle asked worriedly, still carefully picking straw from her companion's shoulders. 

Dwalin grunted, but didn't answer, and Bilbo realized that instead of going up into the city they were going deeper into the pens, until the ground was starting to slope downwards into a deep maw, lit only by the occasional dots of lanterns, set high above along the walls. They were approaching a huge cave, its floor a sea of jutting teeth, the stone jagged and pitted at times through the passage of gigantic talons. 

Oh.

Myrtle seemed to realize where they were at the same time, and huddled a little closer to Bilbo, wings flaring slightly. The etchers' pens smelled different, somehow, none of the usual scents of warm scale and dragonflesh. Here, Bilbo could only smell earth and stone, and something more, a sharp, almost acrid scent that made his eyes water a little. 

Acid.

Then a seemingly uneven length of toothed stalagmites moved, rippling, and Bilbo saw that what he thought had been stone was actually the great, curled form of a massive dragon. But of course - the etchers were too large for stalls. Eyes wide, Bilbo came to a stop beside Dwalin as the huge etcher - presumably Aðalstein - rose ponderously to his feet, his back nearly brushing the ceiling as he lumbered forward, carefully sidestepping the occasional etcher, until he was crouched at the end of the slope, his huge head on level with his companion. 

Dwalin reached out, stroking his palm against the rock-hewn skin of his dragon, then he said, shortly, "Aðalstein would speak to you, Myrtle."

"Oh, um, certainly," Myrtle stiffened, and made a fluting, querying whistle. Aðalstein drew back and replied in a rumble, and the conversation went on for a while, with Bilbo trying not to yawn and Dwalin remaining silent. Eventually, Aðalstein made a gruff, serrated sound, nodded ponderously to Dwalin, and turned, picking his way back through to gloom to the space that he had vacated in the cavern. 

Myrtle sat back, puzzled but seemingly satisfied. "What was that about?" Bilbo asked, blinking.

"I'm not sure," Myrtle replied, bewildered. "He asked me a few questions about you. Nothing that you haven't told Thorin or Bofur before."

"Er, what? Why would an etcher be remotely curious about me?" 

"You are an alpha," Dwalin said, as though that explained everything, and for once, Myrtle was still too surprised to bristle; it was left to Bilbo to prompt.

"And?"

"And," Dwalin muttered sourly, "Your steamer faced an etcher down, with no fear. It is a rare companion whom inspires complete devotion in his dragon, so Aðalstein has told me." 

"Oh," Bilbo said, blinking, even as Myrtle snapped her wings shut, now embarrassed, "Well, um-"

"You have no omega?"

"Well, no-"

"Here," Dwalin glanced briefly into the dark, then he held out his palm. Within it was a small, jagged fragment, like a piece of broken rock. "A scale fragment." 

"Er…" Bilbo instinctively started to reach out, still thrown from the entire incident and sleepy, but Myrtle clapped a claw quickly on his shoulders, halting him. 

"Master Dwalin," she said, with great dignity, "Are you presenting my Bilbo with a _courting gift?_ "

He scowled at her. "Aðalstein has deemed him a worthy pursuit." Dwalin's tone made it amply clear that _he_ himself did not share this view.

" _What,_ " Bilbo yelped, horrified, but Myrtle was already speaking, very firmly, "Well, I'm very sorry to advise that I don't approve of it."

Dwalin's scowl turned into a furious glare, and he said, tightly, "You insult me, dragon."

"Actually, you insult _me_ ," Myrtle snapped. "Bilbo is _mine_. If he chooses an omega, _I_ get a say in it, just as your dragon has a say in your affairs. You've been very unpleasant to us from the beginning and we're not in the least impressed with your noble blood-"

" _Myrtle_ ," Bilbo interrupted quickly, and lowered his voice. "Besides, Master Dwalin, isn't there someone else whom you'll greatly prefer to give that to?"

Dwalin's expression froze for a long moment, then his lips thinned, and he exhaled. "That matters not."

"Well, it matters a lot to _me_ ," Bilbo said, as gently as he could. "You see, I think that I'm acquainted with the person in question, and frankly, the two of you have made a terrible mess of things despite actually being interested in each other." 

"You know nothing of this matter."

"I know that you've been stalking each other, that's what," Bilbo muttered, "And in the Shire our Shirriffs would have been tempted to throw the both of you into a room and lock the door until you've worked out all of your considerable laundry list of problems, but it seems that your dwarves do things Differently here, Valar help us."

Dwalin stared at him silently, as though shocked at the very idea, then his lip curled upwards at the edges, very faintly, and he closed his hand over the fragment of scale, pocketing it. "We do things differently here," he agreed quietly, and looked away for a moment before squaring his shoulders. "Master Baggins, I… apologize for my behaviour on that night in the stalls, and again on the courier grounds. You have the right to claim recompense from me or my House." 

Myrtle made a fluting sound of surprise, and Bilbo tried to stifle his tentative grin, if poorly. "Well then, my recompense is this - that you'll go and talk to Ori in private, nicely, mind you, and comprehensively, if you can manage that, but I'll settle for civility. And do it without Aðalstein."

"You ask for much." Dwalin muttered, clenching his hands, his cheeks colouring. "But I hear you."

"I hope that was the right thing to do," Myrtle murmured, as they ambled back to her stall. 

"It won't fix anything," Bilbo predicted, "But it's a start." Approved by Aðalstein indeed! He needed a nice cup of tea, and quickly.

Thorin was standing by Myrtle's stall, peeking in and looking confused; he glanced up sharply at them as they approached. Bilbo zeroed in on the tray of tea things and breakfast that Thorin was holding with barely disguised joy. "Oh, thank the Valar!" 

"Maybe you should have a bit of a lie down," Myrtle said soothingly, as the tea tray was resettled on a bale of hay, and Bilbo sat back against Myrtle's flank, taking a fortifying sip. 

Thorin seemed to be alternating between bewilderment and pleasure, and he finally asked, "Did something happen?"

"Aðalstein made Dwalin proposition my Bilbo," Myrtle growled, her tail flicking against the hay even as she picked up a biscuit, clearly still offended by the matter.

"But why… ah, I see." Thorin frowned, his expression clouding quickly. 

"Also, why on earth would Dwalin present you with a bit of scale?" Myrtle muttered, "That's… that's quite possibly unhygienic! Why, that's like you handing over a hairball or a bit of toenail clipping!"

Thorin choked on his cup of tea, and Bilbo hastily protested, "Now, now, Myrtle, the Old Scale are a little different, I'm sure."

"I gather that his suit was not successful," Thorin observed, with a badly stifled grin, too young to hide his pleasure at his conclusion.

"It was nice of him to apologize, I suppose," Myrtle conceded, ignoring Thorin's blink of surprise. "Though I'm not sure that getting Dwalin to talk to Ori unsupervised was such a good idea after all." 

"Let's never mention this incident again," Bilbo decided morosely. "Oh dear! I do hope that they don't make a complete hash of things."

XII.

Nothing seemed to catch fire in the general direction of the library, but Ori made no further sneak appearances after Council meetings, and on the one occasion that Bilbo went to the library to return a book, he wasn't there. A little worried that things may have gone too far, Bilbo asked Thorin about it one late afternoon, when they were both under the fir tree.

"They will be fine," Thorin said complacently. 

"What about Aðalstein?" 

"Up until Dwalin is on the verge of making a choice, he will not interfere. Though," Thorin noted wryly, "I hear that he is not pleased that _you_ declined."

"The only thing I could find remotely attractive about Dwalin as a prospective omega - no offence to Dwalin - is the fun we would have had introducing him to some of my relatives." 

Behind him, Myrtle let out an amused snort. "Imagine Lobelia's face!" 

"Quite right," Bilbo chuckled, imagining sour-faced Lobelia being introduced to Dwalin, with his forbidding expression and terse nature, then belatedly noted that Thorin was not smiling. "That was a joke, Thorin."

Thorin stared at his hands for a long moment, then whatever thought he was holding in his mind seemed to great to be withheld, and he spoke in a rush, "Would you find a suit from me attractive?"

Bilbo tried very hard not to look over to Myrtle, though he could hear her shift her weight, and he blinked, silenced by the direct question. The silence grew long and awkward, and then Myrtle nudged him pointedly in the flank with a wing. 

Startled, he nearly flinched. "Well, um, that would, er, depend on Myrtle!" Bilbo concluded, with a flash of inspiration. Days before, he would have tried to find a way to let Thorin down gently, but with Gandalf nowhere in sight and Council meetings becoming interminable, Thorin's company was a pleasant relief at the end of the day that Bilbo had started to look forward to. 

Myrtle made a huffing noise, making it clear what she thought of Bilbo's evasion, but when Thorin glanced up at her, making a whistling, staccato noise, she sighed loudly. "Oh, we're one to talk about courage, we are," Myrtle muttered, with a pointed glance at Bilbo, who shot her an apologetic grimace. "And it's a little bit strange to ask someone what they think of your suit _after_ you've already been trying, isn't it?"

Thorin's ears coloured, and Bilbo added, without thinking, "That isn't very kind of you, Myrtle."

Myrtle folded her wings, self-satisfied, and Bilbo realized awkwardly that he had instinctively come to Thorin's defence, like an alpha would to a prospective omega, and he narrowed his eyes slightly. Myrtle's tail flicked against the stone, unrepentant, and she folded her clawed hands. That was odd. Usually Myrtle would have had _lots_ to say about any prospective suitor, with much of it unkind. Not that it had stopped Bilbo before, but it was clear that Myrtle had no intention of helping him out with the problem of Thorin.

"The, um, order of it doesn't matter," Bilbo turned back to Thorin, keeping his tone gentle. "But what about your family, Thorin? You may be estranged from your dragon, but what about your parents?"

"Birth is of less import to the dwarves than worth, Master Baggins," Thorin replied quietly. "Aðalstein's opinion of you carries weight."

Was nothing secret around here? "It's a little overrated," Bilbo corrected. "Why, Bofur's dragon would die for him, I'm sure. And in the Shire-"

"They would," Thorin agreed. "But for Myrtle not to hesitate in the least, to show no fear, _that_ was unusual."

"I would say it's more of a credit to her character than mine," Bilbo noted wryly, and Myrtle snorted. "In any case, I _am_ leaving Erebor, Thorin. And you cannot, can you?"

"Must you leave?" 

"This isn't my home, Thorin. I'm sorry that you're bound to it, I truly am. But I can't stay, and in the circumstances, it isn't appropriate for me to encourage you." 

"If you found my attentions unwelcome from the start I would have wanted to know-"

Bilbo sighed. Young omegas could be so difficult! It was easier talking to other alphas, sometimes. Alphas were all about boundaries. "I didn't find it unwelcome." 

Thorin studied him, lips set in a thin line. "I could not be sure. You seemed to be responding well - Myrtle, too - but I was not sure, since you never seemed anything more than friendly but never said anything about… though I did not mention…" Thorin started to trail off, when Bilbo began to grin, despite his reservations, and Thorin muttered sourly, "I have not done this before."

"Courted a hobbit?" 

"Courted anyone," Thorin corrected, with no trace of self-consciousness, and Bilbo's grin widened before he recalled Ori's horror when he had mentioned the Shire ways. Small wonder that Ori and Dwalin were making a complete mess of everything! 

"No sex until bonding?" Myrtle cut in, too curious to hold her peace. "Why, that's quite possibly unhealthy-"

" _Thank you, Myrtle_ ," Bilbo said quickly, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Thorin was, thankfully, watching him with an equal curiosity rather than horror. 

"Then your people have different ways?"

"Well, we're not as formal as the dwarves-" Bilbo cut himself short abruptly as Thorin casually reached over and picked up his hand, bringing it to his mouth, turning it palm up, and brushing a whiskery kiss over the soft underside. Bilbo shivered, his breath jarring to a halt in his throat, sitting up sharply. 

"Too forward?" Thorin asked, though he didn't let go of Bilbo's wrist, his breath warm and ticklish; Bilbo found himself licking his lips, quite unconsciously, and Thorin's gaze dropped to his mouth.

"Barely scratched the surface," Bilbo murmured, and the Tookish part of him had uncurled, his grin playful now, the respectable Baggins aspect pushed to a corner of his soul. Thorin didn't smile in response; instead he leaned over, further, and the kiss wasn't so much of a kiss but a peck against Bilbo's mouth. 

He was going to laugh, say something teasing, perhaps, but Thorin looked so very serious, and the thought that this was, quite possibly, Thorin's first kiss sobered Bilbo up quickly. Instead, he found himself reaching over, curling fingers in Thorin's thick mane, angling up to give Thorin a proper kiss, gentle and thorough, catching the edge of Thorin's teeth with his tongue awkwardly for a moment before Thorin understood enough to open his mouth. 

Dwarves learned quickly, and Thorin was an eager pupil, soon making up for his inexperience with a rough enthusiasm, and it wasn't until Myrtle pointedly cleared her throat that Bilbo remembered himself and pulled back, flushing to the tips of his ears. Thorin made a low, whining sound, though he kept his hands to himself and stayed put when Bilbo shot him a glance - which, of course, prompted Bilbo's clearly rebellious libido to point out how _amazing_ such a young, passionate and obedient… 

Bilbo took in a deep breath, and jerked his gaze away, to his curled toes, even as Myrtle observed, very mildly, "It's going to be glass of water time if you keep going at it in front of me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wizards are always precisely on time. To make trouble.

XIII.

The very brief impression that Bilbo had formed about Thorin's malleability was rapidly shattered. Despite Bilbo's continued (if admittedly increasingly halfhearted) protests that Thorin was really being rather forward, or that Gandalf would be in Erebor any day now, and what would _he_ think, goodness - Thorin only grew more determined.

That first kiss had been a bad idea after all, the Baggins part of Bilbo had decided, triumphantly. But Bilbo had always had a weakness for earnestness and a far greater one for displays of strength, and Thorin was developing surprisingly sharp instincts. The first time that Thorin had pulled him aside into an empty stall with a touch too much strength had been an accident; Bilbo had stifled a yelp and stumbled heavily. Thorin had started to apologize, and then had hesitated when he had seen that Bilbo was slowly growing red to his ears-

"Pay attention to me," Thorin growled, but Bilbo caught the faint flash of a grin, pressed even as he was within a natural fissure in the rock. Thorin knew Erebor intimately, it seemed, and Bilbo was caught, held up seemingly effortlessly against the rock by just Thorin's strength and by the Valar, he did love it. From this angle, no one from the street could see them.

 _Hearing_ them, however-

"I'm going to be late for the meeting," Bilbo murmured, though he didn't struggle, his elbows propped over Thorin's shoulders as Thorin mouthed over his collar, his beard ticklish, the beads set into his braided hair warming up against Bilbo's skin. " _Thorin_."

"Surely it can wait a few minutes." Curse dwarves and their stubbornness, and their… remarkable aptitude for picking up new skills… Bilbo hastily grabbed for Thorin's wrist as he balanced Bilbo carefully against the rock against his other hand. Smirking, Thorin splayed his trapped hand, his fingers just long enough to curve over Bilbo's rump and squeeze. Bilbo hissed, more in shock than in pleasure, and Thorin's hungry expression quickly melted into boyish concern. 

That was the worst part of it, Bilbo felt, as Thorin gently let him down, brushing an apologetic kiss against his forehead, then a more worried one against his lips when Bilbo didn't speak. Possibly because of his dragon-caused partial ostracism by the other Guards' dragons, there seemed to be a deep vein of wariness and reserve in Thorin, a self-consciousness that could easily lead to destructive bitterness, if Thorin wasn't careful. There was an endearing rawness to the way Thorin reached for him, as though touch-starved, and Bilbo was all too aware that this made the young dwarf vulnerable.

The fact that he was an unbonded omega only made it even more inappropriate. Bilbo sighed. and stroked his fingers up Thorin's arms, patting pointedly until Thorin dropped his hands off Bilbo's hips, pressing them to the rock on either side of his shoulders instead. Thorin opened his mouth, looking uncomfortable, probably about to apologize, but Bilbo hastily reached up to still it with a finger against his lips.

"I'm going to be late," he told Thorin primly, and Thorin smiled a hungry smile, relief sharp in his eyes and in the insistent press of his mouth; Bilbo conceded one kiss, then another, before the Baggins part of his soul kicked the rest of him into submission. 

Thankfully, for Bilbo's sanity, Thorin hadn't yet figured out what else he could do with his hands and mouth, and Bilbo managed to squeeze out of the fissure before he embarrassed himself. Thorin followed, his expression carefully neutral, but for the lingering flush of colour on his cheeks. Instead of heading back to the pens, he fell in step with Bilbo as Bilbo retraced his way to the main thoroughfare and further down, towards the Courts.

"Do you not have duties to attend to?" Bilbo prompted gently.

"I do-" 

"I'll see you afterwards," Bilbo assured him quickly, as the thoroughfare started to curve down into busier streets. He had no wish yet to be caught out by Thorin's family; despite Thorin's seeming indifference to what his dragon or his family would think, Bilbo was sure that it couldn't be the case. 

Thorin nodded slowly, and turned to go with clear reluctance - then he froze to the spot, frowning. Bilbo opened his mouth, about to ask what the matter was, then he saw the bent peak of a gray hat, emerging from a steep stair, then Gandalf, grumbling to himself as he straightened up from the corridor into the vast interior of Erebor. The wizard looked irritable, dusty and tired, but he still smiled when Bilbo let out a shout of recognition and joy.

"My dear Bilbo," Gandalf chuckled, "My word! I cannot tell you how pleasant it is to see a friendly face."

"That does not sound as though your business has gone well," Bilbo noted hesitantly, and when Gandalf let out a long sigh, he hastened to add, "Gandalf, this is Thorin. Thorin, this is Gandalf, the Grey Wizard."

"The young prince and I have met before," Gandalf said blithely, then he raised his whiskery eyebrows when Bilbo blinked owlishly at him, his thoughts crashing to a sudden white halt. "Bilbo?"

" _Prince_?" Bilbo managed to squeak, wide-eyed. 

"Well of course," Gandalf groused crossly, "I'm well acquainted with his family. We Wizards check in on the House of Durin and its dragon every so often. Erebor holds an important strategic location."

Bilbo wasn't really listening. Astonishment had given way to anger, born from hot humiliation - oh, he had been so blind! And Thorin - why hadn't Thorin said anything? Had he thought it amusing to play along? Had everyone else known? And… and Thorin's _dragon_ \- he would bond with _Smaug_ , then! Why, that was-

"Bilbo," Thorin reached for his arm, then his expression pinched when Bilbo sidestepped his grasp. Gandalf frowned at the both of them, and seemed about to say something, then clearly thought the better of it.

"Bilbo-"

"And when were you going to tell me about _that_ , your _Highness_?"

"How was I going to bring it up?" Thorin demanded, quick to show a stubborn dwarfish temper even in retreat. "I couldn't just drop it into normal conversation!"

"You could have brought it up by itself!"

"I didn't want this to happen!" Thorin took in a deep breath, then visibly forced himself to relax, dropping his tone, though there was a desperate cast to his eyes and his fists were clenched tight. "Once you knew who I was you would have turned away."

 _Just like everyone else_. Bilbo felt the weight of the words left unspoken, and suppressed a shiver. He hadn't realized that he had gotten _this_ attuned to the voice of Thorin's soul; hadn't realized how much he had pulled Thorin towards the steady orbit of his own bonded soul. Thorin had been a little subtle after all, or perhaps - more likely - it had been accidental. Being around Thorin and his scent, his bared _heart_ all the time; that had affected Bilbo after all, more than he had thought, and it was a mistake. 

"A prince I wouldn't have minded talking to. A liar, on the other hand, now that I can't abide."

"I never lied to you," Thorin retorted hotly, "I just…"

He had just _wanted_ ; first to have a dragon to talk to, then a friend with no knowledge of his status, and then Thorin had grown so increasingly, desperately attached that the thought of saying anything at all to ruin it had hurt with a physical ache. Bilbo felt the ghost of an echo of it within his chest, his throat starting to clench, and he pulled in an unsteady breath, taking a step back. 

"Don't," Bilbo managed to gasp, and when Thorin stared at him with a look of mute pleading, he exhaled and hardened his heart. "Just go." 

Thorin had too much pride to apologize, it seemed, let alone beg; he nodded curtly and turned away. Bilbo sagged, flinching when Gandalf caught his shoulder absently to steady him. The wizard had stayed so silent and still that Bilbo had almost forgotten that he was there. 

"Dear me," Gandalf murmured, once Thorin was gone. "What on earth have you been up to, Bilbo Baggins?"

Bilbo managed a weak smile. "Let's just head to that meeting. I think I'll be glad to see the back of this place."

XIV.

To his dismay, Gandalf seemed to have no intention of disabusing the others of the Shire's total disinterest in being militarized - quite the opposite. Bilbo had sat quietly through Gandalf's terse report on the mustering of Lord Elrond's and Lady Galadriel's forces, but when Gandalf had mentioned, blithely, the Shire's involvement, as though it was already spoken for, he had to speak out.

"Gandalf, about that-"

"About what, Bilbo?"

"The Shire won't agree to war, Gandalf," Bilbo said firmly, growing more confident as he spoke. "Maybe we can help with supplies, or healers, or couriers, but we won't fight. How can we? We've never fought other dragons before."

Gandalf's eyebrows rose. "Quite a proportion of King Bard's army are farmer's boys and fishermen's sons, also taking up arms for the first time. The Ereborean army, too, has traditionally pulled recruits from its citizens to swell its ranks in times of war. How different are they to the Shire?"

"Well," Bilbo floundered for a moment, before he caught himself, "We know nothing of war! And from the tactics discussed, we'll be in the first line of defence, against… against _undead_ dragons! It's purely hypothetical that we can beat back their flames, and I don't think we'll be able to harass dead creatures in the least! Hobbits in _battle_ , Gandalf? With our dragons?"

"You'll all need to be trained, of course."

"This war is far from our borders, Gandalf. I can't in good conscience advise the Thain to agree to all this."

"Then do it in poor conscience," Gandalf growled, exasperated. "Bilbo, I have been a friend of your kind for far longer than you have lived on this earth, and Valar willing, I will be a friend to the Shire for longer than even that. I know precisely who and what your people are, and your dragons. But the world is far bigger than your borders, and like it or not, you are all part of it."

"Orc armies don't rampage so far," Bilbo argued stubbornly, trying not to waver. He had come here to defend the Shire's interests, and by the Valar, he would do it.

"Not normally," Gandalf shot back, "But which orc armies have dragons? There is nothing normal about this war, Bilbo Baggins - that is why Elrond and Galadriel are also coming to Thranduil's aid, with their own, precious few dragons. A great shadow has risen from Dol Guldur, one that I fear may come to cover Middle Earth itself, if it is not stopped." 

A shiver wracked through him, and Bilbo bit down on his lower lip, even as Bard glanced over to Arton's wooden expression, then over to Thrór's grim visage. "We have called mercenaries from down the river and from the North," Bard said quietly. "But Dale's army does have many farmboys and fisherfolk sons. I will put their lives and mine into your hands, O King Under the Mountain."

"Our smiths are working as quickly as they can to outfit our armies," Thrór replied gruffly. "The first wagonloads of armour and weapons should be ready within the next week. Arton?"

"Our own equipment is adequate," Arton noted politely.

"Bowmen," Thrór clarified, with only a touch of impatience. "Have you sent trainers to Bard?"

"They are on their way," Arton nodded.

"Have one or two of them head to the Shire instead. The hobbits will have to learn how to shoot a bow from the backs of their dragons." 

"Now wait just a minute," Bilbo interrupted, annoyed. "I've said that we aren't participating."

"But you _must_ ," Gandalf growled, and there was thunder in his voice; Arton frowned slightly, and Bard sat up quickly - even Smaug drew back a fraction. "I will be speaking to the Thain and to the Mayor. The Shire folk are dear to me, Bilbo, but without them, Erebor and the Woodland Realm will burn, and this vast bulwark against the dark forces will fall. No one is ever ready for war," he added, sounding tired again. "War is a ravening beast, and it is cruel, never kind. But sometimes it is necessary."

"Surely the other dwarven holds have dragons-"

"The Iron Hills will come to war," Thrór interrupted. "The rest will send what they can. But even if we do muster our full aerial forces, the same problem remains. We have not the numbers."

"The Dragon Guard will have to send trainers to the Shire as well, and a few dragons. A fire drake would be optimal," Gandalf continued, with a glance up at Smaug.

Smaug snorted. "We can spare none."

"The Foundry is being worked around the clock, in preparation for war," Thrór explained. "Take an etcher, a spiketail, and a handful of steamers."

"Dwalin and Aðalstein. Glóin and Sigrún. For the steamers, Dori and Ulrika, and make it up with couriers. They are also formation trained," Smaug rumbled thoughtfully.

"And take Thorin," Thrór continued. "My grandson, next in line for the throne. He will represent me in the Shire."

"Thorin?" Smaug repeated, his tone contemptuous, and Thrór closed his eyes briefly for a moment before he got up from his seat, walking to the edge of the great drop down to the Foundries. He put out a palm, and Smaug wound back his serpentine neck, lowering one great golden eye on level to the dwarven king. It flickered briefly shut as Thrór ran his splayed hand with bone-deep affection over the small mosaic of red scales just under the huge eye, patting up to the first spur of bone that marked the start of Smaug's crests of scything horns. 

Thrór murmured something, in whistling, fluting draconic, and Smaug listened for a long moment before letting out another snort, lifting his head carefully away. "I would speak with the hobbit and the wizard," he said, in pointed dismissal, with a glance at Bard and at Arton. 

Bard narrowed his eyes, but when Thrór looked over to him, he nodded stiffly and got to his feet. Arton seemed as wooden as ever, following the King of Dale out of the chamber, until Bilbo was standing nervously beside Gandalf, sweating and hoping that his hands weren't shaking. 

"Thorin has been showing an interest in you, hobbit," Smaug spoke, and Bilbo wished for a moment that he was an omega; faced with just the resounding rumble of Smaug's voice, he could hear no emotion but menace. 

"That was a misunderstanding, and it's been cleared up."

"Hn." Smaug eyed him thoughtfully, then looked up to Gandalf. "I trust that Thorin will come to no harm in the Shire?" 

"He'll be accompanied by Aðalstein," Gandalf shrugged. "And the Shire is a peaceful place." 

Surprised, Bilbo found himself blurting out, "You're worried? But I thought that you hated him!"

Thrór exhaled loudly, but Smaug merely stated, flatly, "I need him yet."

"Do you know how unhappy he's been?" Bilbo demanded, forgetting his own argument with Thorin, and even his awe of Smaug, "How long has this been going on? How could you tell the other dragons not to speak to him? And how do you expect him to get to the Shire, if you won't let the other dragons carry him?"

"He can get there the same way that the wizard got here," Smaug retorted shortly, his rumble growing lower, deeper, though when Thrór whistled, turning to regard him, the tension seemed to bleed from him, and he eyed Bilbo again, unblinking. "You are a brave little thing to dare to take such a tone with me, Master Baggins. I hope that the rest of your people are also as brave." There was condescension there, but Bilbo grit his teeth and clenched his hands against the edge of the table. 

Why _had_ he done that?

"You know that what happened was an accident," Gandalf folded his arms firmly over his bristling beard. "They were but children, the way the dwarves count time. You loved that boy once, Smaug; you took more joy in his birth than even his parents! Thirty years is a long time to hold a grudge."

"Not to a dragon," Smaug snapped back, and dipped his head, climbing back down towards the Foundries. King Thrór sighed, and settled heavily into his throne, for all looks and appearances now a very old dwarf, weary of life as he rubbed his hand over his face. 

"I will make the arrangements for your departure," Thrór said tiredly, without looking up. "Master Baggins, will there be an issue with Aðalstein's size and the Shire?"

"Well, um," Bilbo exhaled, "No, I guess not. You do realize however that the final decision over whether to go to war will lie with the Thain and the Mayor." His original outrage at the situation was gone, sucked away in the wake of Smaug's resentment and King Thrór's pain; the echo of old grief lay thickly in the chamber, and Bilbo just wanted to leave. 

"Of course." Thrór waved them away, and Bilbo trailed Gandalf out of the chamber, feeling like an intruder. 

"Smaug loved Thorin once?" he found himself asking Gandalf, when they were out. 

"Thorin _is_ the firstborn child. For a decade or so of his life, he was the only child; he had all of Smaug's attention. After that, it was shared, but the sentiment was still there." Gandalf sighed. "Until the accident."

"But Smaug couldn't have known that Thorin was an omega from the beginning." 

"Neither does Aðalstein care overmuch that his companion's older brother is an alpha," Gandalf pointed out. "The Old Scale love in terms of bloodlines, Bilbo, in trenches of eternity. Once, Smaug was like Aðalstein. Possessive of all of the House of Durin."

"Dragons hold great grudges." Bilbo could only feel a deep sadness at this, now that he had understood more of the situation. 

"They do," Gandalf agreed cryptically, "And I fear that this one has come down to roost. No need to look so glum, old friend. They can sort out their own matters. We have more pressing problems now."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flight of dragons-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Thilbo in this chapter, sorry! Just introducing the others.

XV.

At least Gandalf didn't seem smug in the least, when they emerged out onto the wide boulevard leading to the great Gate. Bard was waiting for them there, his thumbs in his belt, and he nodded to them in greeting when they reached the top of the stairs.

"For what it is worth," Bard said gruffly, "I _am_ sorry that your people have to be involved."

"I haven't agreed to anything," Bilbo retorted tersely, too distracted by what had happened with Smaug to remember politeness. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm just bringing a few guests to the Shire. Might even be a good educational opportunity on their part. It'll be up to the Thain and the Mayor."

Bard glanced at Gandalf, who sniffed, but said nothing, and eventually, Bard prompted, "You managed to get the elves to agree to reinforce the Woodland Realms."

"I did," Gandalf muttered, "But not as many of them as I wished; Elrond is busy watching his own borders, and supportive as the Lady Galadriel is, there have been incursions of late into Lórien. I fear that the power of Nenya is waning."

"Waning!" Bard breathed, and Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. He too, had heard of the Rings of Power. "But what could that mean?"

"What I hope that it does not," Gandalf sighed, his gaze distant and unfathomably old, hunching his shoulders, and seeming for a moment to lean on his staff, like an elderly man, rather than something not of Middle Earth. "And for reasons unknown to me, the head of our order, Saruman, has been nothing but difficult and obstructive. He is long used to peace, I think, and would try to hold on to it at all costs, even as the world crumbles around Orthanc."

"What of the other cities and states? Rohan? Gondor?" Bard asked, frowning. "I could send them emissaries, if our need is so great."

"Mordor sits ever uneasily beside Gondor; Gondor will not come, nor should it - it is in the midst of contesting Osgiliath, and it will serve to prevent reinforcements from marching out of Mordor towards Mirkwood. As to Rohan," Gandalf grunted, "Fengel-King and I have never been on the best of terms. He will not come."

"His greed is well known," Bard agreed soberly. "I hear that his son Thengel has been driven out, to Gondor." 

"The marshalls are in disarray, and Thengel is happy in Gondor. He has no interest in returning to Rohan until his father's eventual death. So much for the kingdoms of men," Gandalf said wryly, patting Bard's shoulder. "But even were all the armies of Man to come, they would avail to little against the great bone beasts that the Necromancer has raised. Our hope lies westwards, I'm afraid, not to the south."

Gandalf's words sat uneasily on him as they emerged out of the Gate and into a pushing, muttering throng of dwarves. Puzzled, and too short to see anything, Bilbo picked at Gandalf's sleeve in irritation. "What's happening, Gandalf?"

"Oh, for…" Gandalf raised his voice. "Let us through! Let us through!" 

Unwillingly, the crowd parted for them, and finally, Bilbo could see beyond the Gate, up the slope to a high spur of rock, a gigantic eagle was perched, larger than any steamer, preening its feathers and blithely oblivious to the angry, muttering crowd. At the edges, the Guard were jostling to keep order, and at the edges of the pens, one of the etchers sat, watching the eagle, spiketails shifting and whistling to themselves beside him. 

"Balin! Balin," Gandalf reached out with one bony hand, and grasped the shoulder of a dwarf at the edge of the crowd. Dwalin's brother, Bilbo realized, with a blink - shorter than Dwalin but just as broad, his face kindly rather than stern, a huge puff of a beard spilling over his robes. "What is happening?"

"Ah, Gandalf. Well. You did bring one of the eagle-folk," Balin noted mildly. 

"They don't eat dragons any longer," Gandalf said crossly. "And how else was I supposed to get from Rivendell to Erebor?"

"Eat _dragons_?" Bilbo yelped. 

"Don't you start, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf snapped. "Balin, the King has need of you. Get this crowd under control. Bilbo, settle whatever business you have remaining in Erebor. I expect to take flight by the afternoon." 

"And what about you?" Bard asked.

"I? I am going to find some quiet place to have a nice smoke, and so help any Man, dwarf or hobbit who interrupts me!"

Bard watched Gandalf stride off towards the eagle beside Bilbo, and after a moment, murmured, "Is the Wizard usually like this?"

"Sometimes," Bilbo admitted, then he blinked when Bard bent, then went down on a knee, reaching out with a hand; uncertainly, Bilbo clasped it. "Um."

"Safe trip," Bard patted their clasped hands. "Innocent of war or not, I hope that your people will come."

"Good luck, King Bard," Bilbo replied uncomfortably, trying not to look too long into Bard's earnest, worried face. "But I can't promise you anything." 

Myrtle was behind the line of spiketails, trying to peek out at the eagle, and she followed Bilbo back to the stalls reluctantly. The pens were empty, with most of the dragons thronging the courtyards and beyond, and it seemed eerily silent, as Bilbo started to pack up the saddlebags. 

"We're leaving, then?" Myrtle asked, peering at him. "Now?"

"This afternoon." Bilbo turned to face her. "Oh, Myrtle! I think I've made a mess of things after all!" He told her everything, from the quarrel with Thorin in the morning to the Council meeting, then the later discussion with Smaug, and at the end, Myrtle sat down heavily on the straw, with a low and unhappy whistle. 

"So we'll be going to war!"

"Not yet. I don't know." Bilbo admitted miserably, sitting down beside her and leaning his cheek on her warm, smooth flank. "It isn't up to me."

"I don't like that," Myrtle said anxiously, "Imagine the Tooks and their riverslates! They never take anything seriously, how will they act in a battlefield? Oh, and Primula and her-" 

"I know, I know," Bilbo hugged himself, and after a moment, the flat of Myrtle's tail curled against his hip. "I can't even think about it without going all cold."

"And Thorin!" Myrtle mused. "Well, I suppose I always suspected that he was more than what he claimed to be." When Bilbo stared up at her in surprise, she noted, dryly, "He would never tell me what the name of his dragon was. But I felt that I could guess. Which dragon would have the authority to enforce what had been done to Thorin, even with the etchers and the other firedrakes?"

Put that way, Bilbo felt rather silly after all, for never guessing. Myrtle did have a point. Who else but Smaug? "He should still have said _something_."

"Maybe." Myrtle seemed unconvinced, though she added, "I think he should apologize." 

"At the very least," Bilbo muttered, cinching up the bags to the saddle. It was heavier than it was when they had left the Shire, and they hadn't even packed in any supplies. Hopefully Aðalstein would be doing the bulk of the lifting.

"Sigrún and Ulrika," Myrtle mused out aloud. "I haven't spoken to Sigrún before, but Ulrika is a decent sort. She's a barksnout, you know what they're like. It's funny that Smaug picked her and Dori, actually." 

"Really? Why?"

"Well, Ulrika and Dori weren't originally trained for the Guard. The steamers of a Guard size are usually given to recruits who are allowed to enlist in the Guards," Myrtle explained. "Ulrika's egg at birth was unusually small, for a barksnout; there were concerns that she wouldn't survive, or would be deformed. Her egg was put into the courier's lottery, but no omega wanted to put their names down for a dragon that might not live far through hatching, and eventually a poor tinker put his name in for it, when he heard that the egg might be… let go."

"Dori," Bilbo noted out aloud. Strange, that name. Perhaps he was related to Ori. The dwarves did seem to have some familial similarity in their names. "Let _go?_ "

"I know!" Myrtle snorted. "But I was told it's a very rare practice, and the dwarves think it's cruel to have a hatchling come out to the world for a brief period of just suffering, or something like that. I personally thought that it was probably because Ulrika was just a barksnout egg. They'll probably try harder for an etcher egg."

"So how did she end up in the Guard?"

"She was really small and weak at birth, but her companion was determined to keep nursing her. Stayed for weeks at the pens until she was strong enough to eat by herself. After that, she improved, and grew bigger. When she grew too big for the courier corps they transferred her and Dori into the Guard." There was another snort. "I bet that was embarrassing!"

What an odd situation! "How did the other Guard take it?"

"Ulrika gets along fine with them. I've never met Dori, but she's fiercely proud of him."

"Is this Dori… Ori's brother, by any chance?"

"Why, I didn't think of that," Myrtle's sails flared a little in embarrassment. "I probably should've!"

"Hm. I may be wrong." It was going to be an… interesting trip, at the very least.

XVI.

Dori was indeed Ori's brother, and Bilbo found him fussing over Ori on the external border of the pens, dressed in Guard armour. A very large barksnout, almost as large as a bramblescale, was sitting placidly beside them both, watching the eagle. Like other barksnouts, Ulrika had a plated snout where her scales were thickest, and her teeth were hooked slightly at the tips, built for holding on and choking. She was a pale green in colour, flushed to mottled browns and greens over her compact wings, and her claws were large and suited for climbing. Barksnouts originally lived in thick forests set against mountains and cliffs.

Myrtle greeted Ulrika with a whistle, she chirped in response. Dori and Ori looked up quickly, and Dori's mouth thinned as he recognised Bilbo. "Master Baggins, I presume."

"Please call me Bilbo."

"I suppose I have you to thank," Dori growled, "First for setting that beastly, jumped up noble's son on my little brother, and then for dragging us halfway across the continent to a place we've never been to?"

"Well, um," Bilbo hesitated, startled by Dori's anger.

"That's not true!" Ori shot back hotly. "Master Baggins has been nothing but kind and patient with me! There's nothing wrong with Dwalin, he isn't beastly! I'll see who I like. And as to the second part of it all, Master Bilbo didn't want anything to do with the war. I'm sure that the order came straight from the King!"

Dori glowered at Ori, but the young alpha met his gaze, and eventually, it was Dori who looked away with a sigh. Ulrika let out another chirp, nosing Dori's shoulder worriedly at first, then she nudged Ori, to Bilbo's surprise. Ori glanced quickly back to the pens, as though checking to see if they were being watched, then he patted Ulrika's flared, ridged crest, and ducked his head. In a smaller voice, he whispered, "I'm sorry I shouted at you, Dori."

"No, I'm sorry." Dori squared his shoulders. "Master Baggins-"

"Bilbo."

"Bilbo, I spoke in haste. It's been a rather startling morning," Dori added wryly. "I apologize. First I hear about my little brother and Dwalin, and then the King's order comes for the both of us to pack up as quickly as we can for a trip of uncertain length in a place we've never been to, and well, I'm not very good with surprises."

" _Both_ of you?"

"A scribe is always present when one of the Old Scale has reasons to leave Erebor," Ori noted, with such studied innocence that Dori snorted. 

"And you'll have me believe that the Masters just so happened to pick an apprentice, aye?"

"It'll be a good opportunity. And besides, I did want to see Bilbo's Shire," Ori added, a little more shyly. 

"And we'll be glad to have you over for tea at Bag End," Myrtle said enthusiastically, clearly already charmed by the idea. "Dori can come too, and Ulrika. We'll have a proper little gathering." 

Bilbo swallowed his sigh. He guessed that at the very least, it really didn't hurt to show the dwarven dragons how the companionship system really should operate. "Yes, that would be lovely. Your brother was kind enough to give my Myrtle a scroll of her name. It's so beautiful - why, I'm surprised that he's still an apprentice!"

This seemed to be the right thing to say to Dori; he puffed up with pride even as Ori blushed, and beside him, Ulrika glanced between Dori and Bilbo and trilled, clearly pleased that the tension had been defused. They were still chatting when Bofur and Bifur landed beside them and dismounted, saddlebags already full up.

"Sorry we're late," Bofur patted one of the bulging saddlebags. "Bombur wouldn't let us go until we were 'properly stocked'." 

Myrtle greeted Ósorgr with a happy whistle, and the small dragon let out a long series of chirps and fluting whistles in response. Ulrika's wings clipped to her back, amused, and Dori laughed even as Bofur rolled his eyes. Myrtle shuffled, ducking her head in embarrassment. 

"Don't get ahead of yourself now, me lad," Bofur said dryly, thumping Ósorgr's flank. "You're lucky that Myrtle's companion didn't understand a word of that."

Bilbo glanced over to Myrtle, but she only mumbled something inaudible, and looked over to Bifur's dragon, curiously. He was a small gray riverslate, with sleek scales and a streamlined body suited for diving into lakes and rivers, and he eyed them with a solemn dignity. 

"Oh, and that's Stígr," Bofur introduced. "Don't think you've met in person." Stígr inclined his sleek head.

"Do all the steamers here understand Westron?" Bilbo looked over to Dori as he spoke, but Dori smiled and gave a half shake of his head.

"Ulrika understands a few words of it, but not very much. Bofur, is this all? I thought we were getting a full team!"

"It's just us," Bofur patted Ósorgr. "Couldn't get any of the other lads to agree to go. The mood in the pens is that the war's just about to reach our doorsteps, Dori. Everyone wants to stay here just in case it does, to defend our home." Bofur sighed. "If it wasn't for the necessity of going, I would've stayed."

"This isn't very good," Dori pursed his lips, "But I suppose it'll do, in the circumstances-" He cut himself off as a spiketail swept down from the sky, wings arching to arrest its descent, landing close by. On its back was one of the Guard, ginger-haired and in full armour, packs strapped to his dragon's back. The Guard - presumably Glóin - hopped off his dragon, down onto an outstretched claw and to the ground, striding up to them.

"Dori!" Glóin boomed, looking sour. "It's a fine thing that the world's gotten to, when a newly bonded dwarf has to be packed off to the other side of the world on a royal whim!"

"Ah, well, your, um, bondmate can come too," Bilbo noted, blinking, but Glóin merely glowered briefly at him, then at Ósorgr when the dragon made a series of clicks and whistles. 

"Hah, very funny," Glóin growled, even as behind him, Sigrún snorted. 

"Don't mind Glóin," Ori said dryly, "He's been bonded for _months_. Hardly 'newly bonded'."

"He's just disgustingly in love with his alpha," Bofur agreed. "Can't blame him. She's a beauty." 

Glóin glared at Bofur, even as Sigrún shook herself, rattling the long spikes over her back in a dominance display. Ulrika let out a whistling, long-suffering sigh, and Ósorgr made such a show of lowering his head in obeisance that Myrtle started to laugh, then caught herself with embarrassment and ducked her head. Stígr sniffed, but said nothing, curled close to Bifur, watching the sky. 

Eventually, Aðalstein arrived, settling away from the group of dragons at a careful distance and helping Dwalin dismount. Dwalin walked over, nodding to everyone, his glance lingering on Ori for a moment longer than truly necessary, then he was addressing Bilbo gruffly. 

"Hobbit."

"Dwalin."

"Where is the wizard?"

"Up there," Bofur pointed at the rock spur. In the shadow of the eagle, barely visible, was the bent tip of a hat, and a wisp of smoke. "Where's the Prince?"

"Being briefed by his grandfather," Dwalin noted curtly. 

"He isn't going to be flying on that eagle, is he?" Ori asked doubtfully. "I don't know about eagles."

Dori and Glóin glanced over to Dwalin, who shifted his feet, uncomfortably. "Aðalstein offered to carry him, but it will be Smaug's decision." 

"Aðalstein's an etcher. Why would he need to care what Smaug says?" Bilbo asked mulishly. "Thorin's your friend, isn't he? Shouldn't that be enough?"

Ósorgr spoke, his wings clipping open and shut, warbling and whistling, and Ulrika even joined in with a few chirps, and eventually, Myrtle sighed, translating, "Smaug is not just any dragon, Bilbo. It was Smaug who forged the first alliance between the dragonkind and Durin's folk; Smaug who, with the dwarves, made Erebor safe and secure, helped build the city and found the dwarves' co-existence with the rest of dragonkind. Before that, there was nothing on this scale. Without Smaug, none of them would ever have met their companions."

"Oh." Bilbo murmured, somewhat embarrassed now. He hadn't realized that the dragons' reverence of the Royal Red had to do with anything more than Smaug's sheer size. "I see. Thank you for the explanation, Ósorgr." 

The little dragon nodded solemnly at him, and Bilbo internalised a sigh. If this was the case, then Thorin's problems were far thornier than even Bilbo had thought possible. If the dragons revered Smaug, what about the dwarves? And what about Thorin? Perhaps his wistfulness was not so much a longing for another dragon after all, as Bilbo had surmised. Perhaps he did hope that something could be salvaged.

Bifur raised his head, glancing over Bilbo's shoulder, and he turned around. Gandalf was approaching, looking slightly less peevish, and he frowned over at all of them. "Well? Where is Thorin?"

"He will be here," Dwalin said curtly, and it fell to Bilbo to make an awkward round of introductions. It was growing late in the afternoon by the time Thorin emerged from the Gate, alongside his grandfather and a small complement of guardsmen and servants hauling gear between them, making their way up to the contingent.

Thorin was expressionless, and he carefully did not look at Bilbo. Thrór glanced over to Dwalin, and spoke to him in the dwarven language; after a moment, Dwalin nodded, and Aðalstein carefully lay down onto his belly, allowing the servants to remove his current saddle and buckle on a complex, lightweight-looking harness made of leather and metal rings, that ran half the span of his back, cunningly made to slot around an etcher's thick horns and spikes. Saddles were set between spikes, and loops held the saddlebags in place, with more loops left empty along his flank. A lattice of ropes went over the set, like the rigging on a ship. 

"Part of an etcher's full battle gear," Ori explained, in a whisper, as Bilbo stared in open curiosity. "In battle, Dwalin would captain a full team of unbonded Guards running ranged support, watching Aðalstein's blind spots. Like one of the ships of Men."

"Oh." The notion seemed alien to Bilbo, but he could see the logic, in a situation where there were far more trained Guard omegas than Guard dragons.

Dwalin paced back and forth, carefully inspecting the fit of the buckles and the belts, fiddling and adjusting, then he eventually swung himself up onto the lead saddle, strapping himself down. Thorin clasped his grandfather's arm, then he swung himself up to another saddle, the only sign of his emotion a near invisible tremor to his fingers and one shaky exhalation. 

Dori patted Ori's back, muttering something irritable, but Ori could barely hide his own grin of excitement as Dwalin beckoned to him. Clutching a thick book in his arms, he scrambled up onto the huge etcher's back with somewhat less grace, though Thorin reached out to swing him up at the last step, gesturing and showing him how to strap down.

Aðalstein waited for the guardsmen to get clear before pushing himself up to his full, great height. Glóin was already pulling himself up onto Sigrún, and the others were mounting; at Myrtle's low whistle, Bilbo hastily pulled himself up into saddle. Just in time - the etcher had taken off, in a ponderous roar of wings, followed by Sigrún, and as Myrtle tailed Ulrika up into the air, Bilbo could see Gandalf making his way over to the eagle, which was hopping from foot to foot, impatient to fly. 

"We'll practice defensive formations," Dori called over to Glóin, once they were all in the air, and Bofur nodded; Ósorgr spun up into the air with a quick flap of his wings, speeding towards Aðalstein's head, fluting something down to Dwalin. Bilbo could see Dwalin nod, then Ósorgr was speeding ahead, taking point. Glóin and Sigrún dipped down, to protect the etcher's softer underbelly, while Stígr slowed to hang back. "You're on the left, Bilbo," Dori called to him, as Ulrika took him high up, over to Aðalstein's right flank, ready to swoop to assist at any point, and Myrtle hesitated for a moment before imitating her.

"We don't have to participate," Bilbo noted mildly, though he was grinning. No doubt this would grow tired after an hour or so, but for now, with the massive shape of the etcher beneath him and the wind in their wings, it was rather exhilarating. 

"Just for now," Myrtle allowed, though her voice was tight with an equal excitement, watching the horizon. Home! They were going home, in the middle of a flight of dragons. Through the eddy of clouds, the morning was a brilliantly endless blue.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a shame that all their road stops tended to be regrettably Elven by nature.

XV.

Somewhat to Bilbo's surprise, Aðalstein took them straight to Mirkwood, and they settled in a large courtyard that the elves cleared for them, with the huge etcher in the centre, and the other dragons automatically arranging themselves in his blind spots, perched either on the etcher or behind the thick wall of his tail. Aðalstein showed no sign of discomfort, even when Sigrún settled over the curve of his tail, watching the ranks of elves with suspicion.

The eagle settled to roost on a tower after setting down its passenger, and Legolas strode forward from the ranks of guards to greet them with a wide smile. "Arton flew back to tell us that you were coming," he told Gandalf. "It is a pity that you cannot stay for long."

"That's probably not a good idea," Gandalf said, his tone dry as dust. Behind them, Bilbo could dimly hear Dori hissing at Ori to stay with Aðalstein instead of wandering off to explore, and in the corner of his eyes, he could see Dwalin standing on his dragon's back, balanced precariously against a horn, his hand clenched on the hilt of his battleaxe.

Thorin had swung himself down, however, and was approaching them, keeping to the other side of Gandalf. "Prince Legolas."

"Prince Thorin, well met." Legolas nodded. "Come. My father wishes to speak with you, Bilbo, and Gandalf. Myrtle, as well."

"Myrtle?" Bilbo repeated, surprised, and Legolas smiled faintly. 

"Siloratan's request."

Myrtle was deeply mystified at being asked to come along, but the reason for it quickly revealed itself. Just like in the Shire, the elven dragons intermingled with the elves; the tall corridors of the palace of the Woodland Realms were clearly made with their dimensions in mind. They passed one silvery dragon on their way to Court; it glanced at them briefly before winding sinuously on, like a giant, silvery serpent, as long as Aðalstein with the splayed fan of its tail. It was wingless, and not for the first time, Bilbo wondered how the creatures were able to fly.

A dragon was wound around the huge dais of the Elven King's throne, its head resting on the ledge, seemingly asleep. Thranduil was absently petting its thick ivory mane, and he glanced up at them silently as Legolas approached and swung himself up onto the dais to his father's side. Siloratan opened one eye, and just like the silvery dragon they had passed, it was an unsettling, insectile blue, multifaceted, seemingly looking at nothing and everything all at once.

"Hail Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain," Thranduil intoned politely. "Mithrandir. Bilbo Baggins and Myrtle. Welcome to the Greenwood."

Thorin nodded, exchanging equally neutral pleasantries, and Bilbo was bored by the time they finished; he was hungry, and looking forward to dinner. Thankfully, Thranduil asked him no questions, directing only a few enquiries about the Shire and its dragons to Myrtle, who answered self-consciously. Eventually, he asked Gandalf to stay on to discuss White Council business, while Legolas hopped back down to lead Thorin, Bilbo and Myrtle back to the courtyard, where dinner was apparently already being served.

"Have you fought the orc already?" Bilbo asked, in an effort to be friendly, as they walked. Thorin was keeping a stony silence, staring at the ground, and Bilbo was under no real inclination or mood to try to speak to him. 

"Oh yes," Legolas said enthusiastically, "I have led two forays, harassing their ranks. We hope to gain a greater understanding of their numbers shortly. It is difficult. Many of their ranks are underground, in the tunnels." 

Bilbo couldn't help but grin at the elven Prince's infectious mood. "At least you seem to be enjoying yourself, Legolas."

"Well," Legolas admitted proudly, "I have not yet had cause until now to prove my mettle. And what better cause than the defence of our borders and friends?"

"You find killing the orc entertaining?" Thorin growled. 

"It is necessary work," Legolas seemed puzzled by Thorin's mood. "I am glad to see you here, Prince Thorin. It is a rare day when the line of Durin visits the Greenwood."

"Through necessity," Thorin retorted, and looked away. Legolas glanced at him worriedly, then at Bilbo, and Bilbo shrugged, growing a trifle annoyed despite himself. Surely Thorin could understand the nature of diplomacy.

Spying an empty balcony, Bilbo squared his shoulders, and said, "Legolas, I'll speak to you later. I think we can get back to the courtyard from here by ourselves."

"Very well," Legolas nodded, and continued to stride down the corridor. 

Thorin glanced at Bilbo questioningly as Bilbo gestured for him to follow, and Myrtle stayed at the doorway to the balcony, using the bulk of her body to block them in. The view looked out to the thick, sloping canopy of the Greenwood, the leaves thick with mist. Birdsong came from its depths, and the occasional animal cry, all over the whisper of leaves and a background hum of insects, through a seemingly endless sea of green, beautiful and vast. Thorin shot it all only a cursory glance before he looked back to Bilbo for an explanation.

"You're here on behalf of Erebor, your Highness," Bilbo noted mildly. "Perhaps a gentle touch is in order."

"We have no love for the elves," Thorin retorted, though he did look a little abashed. 

"Maybe not, but you need them," Myrtle pointed out from the doorway. 

Thorin glanced briefly at her, then turned back to Bilbo, his eyes narrowing. "Did you both trap me in here to lecture me?"

"Well, no," Bilbo said gently, even as Myrtle stated, "Obviously." 

" _Myrtle_ ," Bilbo protested, but Myrtle was already talking over him. "Surely you're old enough to understand that you shouldn't mix your personal problems with what's important. You're a _Prince_. Didn't you get some sort of training for this?" 

Bilbo had started to object to Myrtle's tone at first, then he saw the frozen look on Thorin's face, and despite everything, despite his initial anger at Thorin's deception and then his frustration at being railroaded into Gandalf's plans, despite his empty stomach and weariness he began to laugh. Thorin glared at him at first, but it didn't last; with an omega's empathy, attuned to Bilbo as he was, his lips began to twitch upwards.

"I don't think that I was being funny," Myrtle said peevishly, which only made it worse; Bilbo was leaning against the slender bannister now, laughing until it felt as though his bones were shaking from it, until Thorin was patting him hesitantly on the back.

"You're lecturing royalty about your Standards," Bilbo managed to gasp, after he caught his breath. 

"It still isn't funny," Myrtle retorted, cross now, her sails flared, though she lifted a clawed arm when Bilbo managed to totter over to push his arms around her belly. He patted her flank as she pressed a careful, clawed hand on his head, then he turned to face Thorin, who had recovered more quickly, reserved again. 

When he said nothing yet, Bilbo added, gently, "Dwalin apologized."

"I…" Thorin began, clearly determined to be stubborn, but when Bilbo arched an eyebrow, folding his arms, he exhaled loudly and glanced away. "Fine. I'm sorry for misleading you," he said stiffly.

" _So_ sincere," Myrtle muttered, but she quietened down when Bilbo patted her. 

"Right then. I accept. We'll, um, put that behind us then," Bilbo added, when Thorin merely stared at him, as though confused. "Uh, let's go and get some dinner."

"Wait," Thorin had moved quickly, grasping Bilbo's elbow. "What do you mean?"

"Er, well," Bilbo blinked owlishly at him, "In the Shire, people apologize, and usually, people accept, and life goes on? None of this issue of um, recompense, at least, not when nothing's broken."

"Nothing is broken?" Thorin repeated, and the fierceness was back in his eyes, in the grip he now had over Bilbo's upper arms. "Is it that simple?" 

"Why, what do dwarves do?" Bilbo asked dryly, "Do I want to know? Self-flagellation? Grovelling? A public declaration of sorts?"

"Forgiveness has to be earned," Thorin said, looking briefly annoyed at Bilbo's facetious tone.

"Do you want my forgiveness or not?" Bilbo retorted, a little irritably now; as far as he was concerned, Thorin was being rather terribly difficult about everything, even for a dwarf.

"I do! I do," The hands on his arms tightened briefly, then Thorin added, his voice now thick with hope, "So we are back now to what we were? I haven't… broken anything?"

Oh.

On hindsight, Bilbo probably should have seen this coming. Dwarves were notoriously single-minded, after all. "Thorin," he said gently, squirming until Thorin eased his grip. "Someday you will be King."

"And so?" 

"Don't you need heirs?"

"My sister is an alpha bonded to a male omega," Thorin said quietly. "They will eventually have children."

"That's hardly a sure thing, is it?" Myrtle cut in skeptically, and Thorin looked up briefly at her, as though belatedly recalling that she was still there.

"There's no reason to believe that she isn't fertil-"

" _Never mind that_ ," Bilbo cut in quickly, before he learned far too much about the House of Durin and its mechanics of succession for his sanity's sake. "What we meant is, aren't you too young to bond? Because I don't know if you've realized it yet, Thorin, but you're starting down that road, and I'm not sure if you know what you want."

"Dwarven omegas bond quickly, and besides, my sister is a decade younger than I am," Thorin watched him unhappily. "Bilbo, if I've offended you to the point where you'll no longer consider me, then I want to know." 

"Hobbits don't normally take mortal insult from that sort of thing," Bilbo tried not to breathe in Thorin's scent too deeply. Again he could feel the echo of Thorin's pain, and it was making him dizzy. "But I think it'll be better if we took it slow. You have other duties to attend to, and a war is coming." 

"But-" Thorin began, only to be cut off by a fluting sound from Myrtle, then he sighed, and let go of Bilbo carefully. "Yes. Of course. But what do you mean by 'slow'? Can we still kiss?"

Bilbo floundered a little at the direct question, even as Myrtle made a stifled sound of amusement, evil creature, and Bilbo ended up hedging, "Well, um, of course, _but_ ," he said quickly, when Thorin instantly tried to lean in, "I'll decide when it's appropriate."

Thorin thought this over, biting down on his lower lip. It was entirely adorable when paired with the seriousness on Thorin's face, and Bilbo tried his best to keep his expression solemn. He _did_ want to kiss Thorin here, right now, even with Myrtle at his back and the elves beyond, to taste him, to listen for the beat of his heart and his soul. Suppressing a shiver, Bilbo instinctively reached back, to press his palm against Myrtle's scaly hide, taking balance from that. Her tail flicked against his ankles in silent response, and Bilbo relaxed further, warily. Unbonded omegas were so dangerous.

"It isn't appropriate now?" Thorin asked finally, clearly still struggling with the concept; his considerable pride very likely resented it, at the very least. 

"No. You've been quite rude to Legolas, and besides, we're technically still in public." 

"So this has to be earned." Thorin seemed to be determinedly striking out for familiar ground - dwarves and their surprisingly contractual approach to social niceties! Bilbo gave in, nodding slowly, and Thorin seemed to relax, his pleasure and relief chokingly thick, and Bilbo took in a soft, strangled breath for a moment before Myrtle's dragonscent sobered him.

XVI.

Thorin was openly attentive during dinner, despite Bilbo's increasing embarrassment. The other dwarves seemed to range between bemusement and curiosity; Glóin, in particular, kept frowning at Bilbo, until he finally finished picking through his dinner and trudged off to brush down his spiketail.

Dwalin pulled Thorin aside, at one point, heading over to talk to Aðalstein, and once Thorin was out of earshot, Bofur sat down beside Bilbo, grinning. "The prince is sweet on you, Bilbo."

"Thank you, I didn't notice," Bilbo retorted, with a touch of asperity. Bifur muttered something, from the other side of the table, that made Ori giggle and then look worriedly over to Bilbo.

Bofur smirked. "Bifur said that he thought that the prince was going t'get on your lap and-" 

"That's enough of that at this table," Dori said sharply, and behind him, Ulrika punctuated her companion's words with a snap of her jaws. Bofur grinned cheekily across at Dori, unrepentant, and Myrtle looked up from the pie that she was daintily consuming. 

"We're going to be responsible about it," she said firmly. "We know that he's young and-"

"Oh, he's definitely not too young for this," Bofur made a complicated gesture that had Bilbo and Ori staring, bewildered, and Dori glowering and turning slowly purple. "Besides, his royal grandfather may even like the match, or he would'a said something about it by now. The rumour's been doing the rounds."

"Dwarves!" Bilbo groaned, rubbing a palm over his face. He should have known. Though then again, Thorin wasn't exactly good at being subtle. "I'm just a hobbit, Bofur."

"Aye, a hobbit from a place with a lot o' dragons, that's got t'be useful. Better than bein' matched up with some distant cousin from a smaller dwarven fastness with nothing to offer," Bofur drawled, and Ósorgr cut in with a long series of chirps when Myrtle stiffened. She listened for a moment, then bent her snout back towards the pie, and Ósorgr shot Bilbo a look that was patently apologetic. 

His irritation forgotten, Bilbo asked, dryly, "How often does your dragon have to talk you out of trouble, Bofur?"

"Eh, he does that now and then," Bofur patted his dragon affectionately. "I don't hold it against him. How're you going, Ori? You've really been walking out with Dwalin?"

Ori blushed a little, even as Dori grumbled to himself. "What about it?"

Bofur was totally unconcerned with the edge in Ori's tone. "I'm just asking, lad."

"I'm, um," Ori looked helplessly over to Bilbo, then straightened up over the bench. "We're getting there, I think. Aðalstein wants us to wait until Balin bonds with a female omega and has children, but I don't… I don't know." 

"At least he didn't object outright," Bilbo pointed out. "I thought that he would." That was a relief. 

"Dwalin thinks that you confused him when you refused his offer and then had Dwalin promise to talk to me," Ori recounted, and he smiled, a wide, broad smile. "The etchers have big, slow and complex thoughts, like the deep stone. He's probably still thinking it over."

Dori shushed his little brother, with a glance at the towering bulk of the dragon beside them, but Ósorgr warbled and made a gesture with a wing, and Ulrika sighed. Myrtle choked on her mouthful, glared at the little dragon, and went back to eating. 

"Eh," Bofur shrugged. "Dwalin's not a bad sort." 

Myrtle sniffed. "Really!" 

"You can't _still_ be offended," Bilbo groaned. "He apologized!" 

"You told me that he rejected Ori's first gift," Myrtle pointed out primly, "I can't imagine why anyone with even the remotest sense of taste would do that."

"Oh, er," Ori's ears coloured, even as Dori frowned, confused.

"Rejected? First gift? When was this?"

"Um, it, doesn't matter," Ori said hastily, "It seems that it was a misunderstanding. The noble houses get a lot of gifts from apprentice scribes, trying to persuade them to become patrons. Patrons give commissions, after all, and um, commissions are the best way to get the money to make something impressive enough to be named Master. I should've known that he would have seen it that way."

"I don't think that he's very clever," Myrtle muttered, and Dori nodded vigorously, if with a quick sidelong glance over towards Aðalstein.

"I disagree," Ori said firmly, then he looked over to Bifur when Bifur asked a question in the dwarven language. The conversation drifted over to Ori's scribe work, and Bilbo helped himself to another serving of the mostly untouched salad. The elves' larder was not particularly to the dwarves' taste, it seemed, and Bofur had even broken out a leg of ham from the stores that his brother Bombur had provided, despite Dori's protests that it should be saved for the road. 

Not that they had much longer to go - even at Aðalstein's ponderous speed, it would only take perhaps two more days to reach the Shire. 

Thorin and Dwalin eventually returned, and Thorin glowered at Bofur until the courier shot him a mischievous grin and made a show of shifting away from Bilbo's side. Ósorgr whistled in a low crescendo, and Bofur's grin widened, even as Dwalin snorted and Dori pinched at the bridge of his nose. Thorin's ears reddened, but he sat down anyway, despite the amused look that Myrtle shot him.

Dwalin sat down beside Ori, seemingly oblivious to the dirty look that Dori shot his way. "We cannot roost in the mountains," he began gruffly, "The Misty Mountains are home to the stone giants, who sometimes find sport in heaving rocks at large targets."

"It'll take too long to circle around their territories," Thorin decided. "We have to cross over the High Pass to Rivendell. The winds will be strong, and it'll be hard going, but Aðalstein has said that he is confident. He'll go up as high as possible. Mahal willing, there'll be cloud cover."

Bilbo grimaced. He had made the crossing with Myrtle with scarcely a thought about the giantkin; they were usually sluggish during the day, and knew better than to heave rocks at steamers, which could quickly dodge high out of range. Large dragons, on the other hand, were slow, and could not fly too high; Myrtle had once said something about the air becoming too thin to carry their weight. The thought of how that worked mystified Bilbo.

Ori was writing notes furiously. "So we'll be trying to rush over the mountains in the morning?"

"Etchers don't rush," Dwalin stated, though his tone was mild - at least for Dwalin. "The steamers will all have to scout on ahead."

Glóin had returned to the edge of the table when Thorin had spoken, and he added gruffly, "Sigrún and I have faced the giantkin before. Their bones crack just as easily."

"With a flight of other spiketails, you have," Dori disagreed. "Not by yourself. It's best we keep away from the giants."

"They tend to sleep during the day," Thorin observed. "We'll leave at first light."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently it's about 750 miles from the Shire to Erebor. I did some calculations based on the speed of a pigeon. Sorry, Aðalstein.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo had never thought that running support for a gigantic dragon could prove stressful.

XVII.

Bilbo and Myrtle had followed the other dragons up into the early morning sky with an increasing sense of trepidation, which matured into a fully fledged nervous tension once Aðalstein began to climb up into the sky, clawing for height. The mountains were a long jagged smudge before them, rising out of the thick trees, and swooping ahead was the brown spec of Gandalf and his eagle, flying far higher than even a steamer could go.

"Ulrika told me that's how the eagles hunt," Myrtle told him, over the whistle of the wind around them. "They go as high as they can, and then dive. At the speed that they get to, they can punch even a spiketail out of the air."

Bilbo suppressed a shiver. He had seen how quickly the eagle had launched itself up into the morning sky, how its huge, tapered wings seemed to let it manoeuvre with a delicacy beyond any dragon. "Gandalf said that they don't eat dragons any longer."

"Only because they fear the archers of Dale," Myrtle replied loftily. "It's part of the pact that King Bard's ancestors formed with the first King of Erebor." 

"You've been busy," Bilbo noted wryly. The dragons had been talking to themselves when the dwarves had settled down in the shadow of Aðalstein's tail to sleep, in low whistles and clicks, punctuated by the occasional deep rumble from the huge etcher. 

"I was practicing my draconic," Myrtle admitted. "You do know that we won't have washed our hands of this even when we've reached the Shire."

Bilbo did know that - if only because of Thorin's obvious attachment to him. The young prince had wordlessly set up his sleeping roll next to Bilbo's blankets, ignoring Bofur's smirk and Dori's arched eyebrow. Determined to be proper about it, Bilbo had said nothing, though it had been difficult, with Thorin's enticing scent so close. 

He still had no real idea what to do with Thorin. The proper, Baggins part of him was still struggling with the sheer impropriety of the situation. The Took in him wanted to take it for a spin, Valar take the consequences, and whenever Thorin smiled at him, so very hopeful, his Tookishness grew that much stronger.

"You're worried," Myrtle prompted, startling Bilbo out of his thoughts, and he managed a forced smile. 

"What _isn't_ there to be worried about?"

"Well, it's a good day for flying," Myrtle pointed out, and indeed it was, even though it was beginning to look as though Aðalstein would not be able to reach the thickest cloud cover after all; the dragon had drawn level in the sky. Painfully thin wisps of clouds brushed its craggy scales, and Dwalin was signalling over to Dori, swinging himself up and along the rigging fastened to his dragon like a seasoned sailor. 

Bilbo found that he couldn't watch, especially when Thorin also unfastened himself from the saddle and followed with far less surety, ignoring Dwalin's concerned glance. Ori, thankfully, had the sense to keep in the saddle, seemingly oblivious to the world, scribbling madly into his book.

Dori tried to call over to Bilbo, but the wind at the chilly altitude stole his voice, and eventually, Ulrika whistled, draconic carrying over the wind where Westron could not. Myrtle listened for a while, then she said, tense, "They're preparing to cross the High Pass. Bofur and Bifur are going to scout ahead. We'll be taking it in turns." 

"I'm still not too sure what a stone giant looks like," Bilbo replied worriedly. Below, perched near his dragon's left wing, Dwalin was using a long bronze spyglass to study the mountains. Thorin had taken up a position on the other side of the dragon, also with a spyglass, while Bifur and Bofur were rapidly diminishing specks, speeding on ahead. 

It was a tense and dreary experience, waiting anxiously for their turn, and then it felt as though he was frozen in a state of tense hyper-alertness as Myrtle swept carefully back and forth over the huge designated space that was apparently the range of a stone giant's throwing arm. Bilbo half-expected an eye to open under every craggy cliff, or fingers to unfurl from every broken slab, all too conscious of Aðalstein's bulk, a huge and visible stormcloud gray against the pale blue sky.

A mountain range that Bilbo had only vaguely noticed en route to Erebor now seemed endless, and he was sweating by the time Myrtle pulled back up into the sky, switching places with Bofur and Ósorgr. Thankfully, they made it to Rivendell without any incident, but Bilbo was exhausted after a few shifts at sweeping the mountains, and by the looks of the other steamers, so were they. 

Thorin gave the order to land, and just as in Mirkwood, the elves had been expecting them - a space had been cleared for the etcher in the main courtyard. Too tired to enjoy the view, Bilbo had barely had enough time to unsaddle Myrtle and lay out the blankets before he was out like a light.

Breakfast more than made up for it, and as much as Bilbo was in a far better frame of mind to explore beautiful Rivendell, Thorin was anxious to press on. Besides, Rivendell was in a state of orderly decampment, preparing for war: they would only get underfoot, and Lord Elrond and his sons were away, scattered towards Mirkwood and Lórien - even their dragons were away, as far as Bilbo could tell. Resolving to come back and visit, Bilbo watched Rivendell recede behind them wistfully. 

Dori hadn't insisted on formations today, and Myrtle brought them close to Aðalstein's bulk when Thorin beckoned at them. "That doesn't look safe," Bilbo told him over the wind, watching Thorin's grip on one of Aðalstein's spikes dubiously.

"I need the practice," Thorin called back, unable to hide his grin as the wind pulled his mane into wild tangles. It was strange for a race that favoured living underground to love flight, and Bilbo said so, prompting a laugh from the young prince. 

Up in the air, Thorin seemed to have forgotten, however briefly, his impossible problem with his House's hereditary dragon, and his joy reminded Bilbo of brilliant blue days with crisp winds and the sunlight on Myrtle's scales; it was a gorgeous creature to behold, and he knew that would hoard this memory to the last of his days. 

There was a bit of a romantic in him after all. Bilbo found himself chattering to Thorin about the Shire, about harvest time; it would be blackberry season soon, and the Shire folk would be competing to see who could make the best jams, and the best pies and cakes. Myrtle proudly informed Thorin that Bilbo had so far held the record for Best Crumble two years in a row, and it seemed a so very natural thing, all of a sudden, to talk to a dwarven prince about shortbread and butter.

The morning passed pleasantly; the sun was warm, and the great plains outwards from Rivendell stretched in a rolling sea of green crested occasionally by chalky spurs of rock. Bilbo pointed out landmarks here and there - the distant murky smudge of the Ettinwood, where no steamer would fly; the unruly sprawl of Bree, and beyond, the beautiful quilt of tilled fields that marked the start of gentler lands.

Bilbo wasn't sure who saw the smoke first.

Thorin had glanced up at a shout above from Dori, then his gaze jerked forward to the horizon. In the distance, beyond the ungainly township of Bree, past to the slender ribbon of the Brandywine River, a thick and oily smoke was rising from the rolling fields of the Shire. 

Blinking, Bilbo could only stare in disbelief. A bristling puddle of black stretched away from the Blue Mountains against the Brandywine, and the Bridgefields were burning. The puddle was inching inexorably towards Hobbiton, the heart of the Shire, and the air above it was thick with steamers and their riders, desperately trying to stem the tide, and Valar's mercy - dropping out of the sky, felled by crossbow bolts. 

Dimly, Bilbo was aware of a desperate and heart-rending cry of grief, and it took him a frozen moment to realize that it was from _Myrtle_. Thorin shouted her name, but she was speeding forward, making Bilbo grab frantically for his saddle pommel, dizzy with blank dismay and horror. They were past Aðalstein's gigantic muzzle in a flash, only for Ósorgr to drop out of the sky into their path. 

Snarling, Myrtle banked, and that bestial sound, harsh and jarring and painfully strange from his sweet Myrtle was what broke Bilbo out of his daze. "Myrtle! Myrtle, stop!" 

"We must get to them," Myrtle, however, slowed down, and her flanks were heaving in great gasps. "Oh, the Shire! Why did we ever leave!"

"Get back in formation," Bofur barked over from Ósorgr, and Bilbo glanced up angrily, about to snap at him, only to see Bofur's grim, determined expression. "I don't see any air support, d'you? I think it'll be good to show them orcs and goblins what an etcher can do when it's angry." 

Myrtle hesitated for a long moment more, then Aðalstein rumbled, picking up speed, and she took them up, past the huge drafts from the wings, back into position high above on the etcher's left. They had been seen; the steamers from the Shire were falling back, and the black army was hesitating. 

A couple of steamers broke away from the flight and sped towards them; Bilbo waved his hands with a cry when he recognised Paladin on Scabious and Primula with Magnolia; with a glance over to Ulrika, Myrtle dropped height, levelling up beside Thorin on the etcher's flank to greet them. Scabious reached them first, sooty from ash and looking exhausted; Paladin's face was twisted with fierce relief.

"Valar," Paladin panted, hunched over his saddle pommel, "I have never been so glad to see the both of you in my life! And you brought help, praise be! Is that an etcher? I've never seen one before! It's _huge!_ " 

"Paladin, this is Prince Thorin of Erebor-"

"Introductions can wait," Magnolia cut in quickly, although the bramblescale shot Thorin a curious glance. "We've got more pressing problems."

"Where is your Thain?" Thorin called. "We'll coordinate our efforts." 

"I am Thain now," Paladin said wretchedly. "Ferumbras is dead, Bilbo! He was one of the first to fall and-"

"Pull yourself together!" Primula snapped, and Paladin grimaced before he nodded sharply, straightening.

"Right. Sorry. Um. Where do you want us, Thorin?"

Dori was dispatched to organise the steamers, with Paladin beside him, while Primula lingered, taking up position somewhat awkwardly from Dori's vacated space. Magnolia looked fiercely attentive, despite being just as new to the business of flying support as Myrtle was, and Primula offered Bilbo a wan smile and a wave when he glanced over at them with concern.

Nothing dropped down at them out of the sky, and by the time Aðalstein reached the swarm of orcs and goblins, they were already retreating in a wild panic. Too slowly - Aðalstein roared with a deafening rumble, like summer thunder, and spat out a viscous swathe of silvery fluid as he flew high over the army. Orcs and goblins shrieked and writhed wherever the etcher's acid fell upon them, rolling on the ground as their flesh melted from their bones in horrific, steaming puddles. Crossbow bolts arched down, out of range, but soon the archers in the black horde were too busy running for the mountains to try their luck. 

They harried the horde to the mountains, Aðalstein leaving a wake of twitching, formless hulks behind him with each deadly pass that he made over the scattering ranks, until the army was almost no more, the few survivors fleeing, screaming with fear, into a crevasse in the mountainside. Sigrún landed, and with a few great swings of her tail, smashed the archway down, burying the entrance. 

Aðalstein waited for the spiketail to get clear before spitting a final spray of acid over the rock, melting the surface smooth and sealing it. Behind them, Paladin had rallied the Shire dragons, and flights in haphazard formations were hunting down the last of the goblins and orcs. In the distance, with a shrill cry, the eagle dove, Gandalf clinging on to his hat, disappearing briefly through the tree line before rising again, an orc clenched in its talons, flinging it up and out into the sky to crash back down below. With a shriek, the eagle dived again, and again, until its talons were black with blood. 

With the orc army in rout, the battle was over. Bilbo let out a slow, deep breath, and scrubbed at his eyes. Behind him, the Shire still burned, and he felt like he was drowning in anger and grief, as they passed over the still bodies of steamers and their broken riders. It was a hollow victory.

XVIII.

They had made it home just in time. There were far too many lost to the orc, and it seemed that untrained chaos and panic had been the main cause of most of the casualties, up until Paladin and Primula had rallied the steamers into a haphazardly organised defence.

The Greenfields were burned and trampled and lost, but part of the Bridgefields had been salvaged, and the Bindlewood had survived mostly intact. Paladin had taken in the refugees into Tuckborough, and was organising shelter for the Ereborean contingent and their dragons. Aðalstein seemed unconcerned that he would not be underground, though then again, the etchers _were_ the hardiest of the dragonkin. 

Bag End was untouched, and it seemed almost disgraceful to return to his beautiful, pristine hobbit hole when a large swathe of the Shire was ash. And Valar, the bodies… Lily, Merinas, Lilac, Pearl and Birdsfoot-

Myrtle had refused to let Bilbo out of her sight, and she was still trembling when he unsaddled her and brushed her down; eventually, he made them both a cup of tea, and sat against her flank, staring into space, concentrating just on breathing. She had a wing curled around his back, and glanced up sharply at the sound of footsteps on the polished slate pathway through the lavender bushes towards her room. It was Gandalf, his whiskery beard sooty to his eyebrows, hesitating politely until Bilbo nodded to him and waved him to one of the cherrywood chairs propped against the wall of the chamber. 

"The orc must have waited for Lord Elrond to leave Rivendell," Gandalf said, as he settled down carefully into the small chair. "The Elves are on the march towards Mirkwood, their dragons dispersed to fly in their armies."

Myrtle raised her snout. "Oh Gandalf! If only we had returned a day earlier-"

"Now, we'll be having none of that," Gandalf cut in sharply. "None of us could have expected this. It's been centuries since the last goblin incursion to the Shire."

"But why would they attack us?" Bilbo mused out aloud. "And how on earth would they have known about Lord Elrond's movements?" 

Gandalf let out a deep and gusty sigh. "Our main enemy, the Necromancer, has means of looking out over Middle Earth, old friend. Perhaps he had always intended to attack the Shire once Rivendell was preoccupied. He can no doubt see clearly the threat that your steamers would pose to his army."

"But then he would have known that Aðalstein was coming!"

Gandalf shrugged. "The loss of a few hundred or thousand orc and goblinkind is nothing to the Necromancer, Bilbo. Perhaps he did see that Aðalstein would come, and cared not. Perhaps he did not. But know that he would have gladly poured half again as many into the Shire if he could do murder to just a few more of the Shirefolk." 

Bilbo rubbed a palm slowly over his face. The enemy that Gandalf had just sketched out seemed relentless beyond Bilbo's comprehension. How could they face such a monster? "So war has come to the Shire after all." 

"As it had to," Gandalf said gently. "A great shadow is being cast over the world from Dol Guldur. You cannot hide, not when all that is good in this world is needed to stand against it."

"But the orc may come back," Myrtle noted quietly. "How could we leave now?"

"Quite likely. But the Shire will not know peace again until Dol Guldur is cleansed," Gandalf was drawing his pipe out from his sleeve, filing and lighting it. "And should Erebor and the Greenwood fall, then the Shire will be facing more than just orcs and goblins."

It was a frightening, sobering thought, and Bilbo shivered, even as Myrtle nudged him reassuringly against his flank. The disorganised Shire army had barely kept the invaders at bay. If the orc had undead firedrakes at their command… Bilbo would have returned home to nothing but ruin.

War had seemed so distant and unhappy a concept before. Now it had come home to the Shire, and Bilbo hugged himself, leaning his head back against Myrtle's warm flank. "Where will you go next?"

"I will stay a while until the Shire's course is set," the Grey Wizard puffed out a white ring of smoke, his distant eyes half-lidded. "And then I must fly to Orthanc, to seek Saruman's counsel. Reluctant as the White Wizard is to go to war, I am afraid that he must be persuaded."

"Good luck with that," Bilbo murmured, watching the puff of smoke drift up towards the sky. "Were we to go to war - would that be enough, Gandalf? Would we win?"

"There's no telling for such things." Long fingers tipped back the crooked hat before Gandalf blew out another smoke ring. "You can but try. Thranduil is sending another emissary to Erebor. They'll be organising their own network for now. The Shire can't join in immediately."

Bilbo suppressed another shiver. "Those who died today-"

"More will die," Gandalf interrupted, although he hunched into himself and looked older than ever even as he said so. "Far more. I fear perhaps that it is too late now to fight to preserve the present. It is the future that you'll all be fighting for now. There must be sacrifices." 

"It'll be a big ask," Bilbo predicted, though he recalled the grim faces on his way back to Bag End, the guard rosters that had been drawn up on the spot, the quiet way the Shirefolk had spoken among themselves, glancing at the mountains. 

It was a far cry from the bustle and merriment that usually heralded blackberry season, and they had the orcs to thank for that. The Shire's peaceful idyll had been rudely, violently shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... here's where we move to a somewhat more Temeraire-esque slant, at least in terms of death and destruction. I have tons of projects due over the next few weeks, I'll try to write when I can.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shire prepared for war.

XIX.

The next span of days was exhausting, as the Shire struggled to rebuild. Etcher acid had seared the ground black where it had fallen, with angular rivulets cast deep into the soil and smoothing down stone, and this had to be filled in, the bodies of the orc and goblinkind burned, their own casualties mourned. Bilbo had stayed silent until the first small coffin - of poor little Ellie Proudfoot, only twelve - had been lowered into the ground, and then Myrtle had made a low moaning noise, beside Daisy's curled form, and he had to look away, blinking off stinging tears.

Daisy's companion, Ellie's mother, Mira, hadn't looked as though she had stopped crying, and she was mourning daughter and bondmate both. Bilbo hadn't known what to say, and the bramblescales had huddled around Daisy, bumping their muzzles against her comfortingly. Settled respectfully in a corner of the levelled Greenfields, now a graveyard, the dwarves stayed apart but within sight, grim-faced. 

After the funerals were all over, Bilbo gave a far shorter report than he had originally planned to the group of Shire family heads and their new, too-young Thain, all too conscious of Thorin watching him keenly from the back of Tuck Hall and Gandalf folded a little awkwardly against a wall, balanced with wizardly precision on one of the small chairs. Myrtle interjected now and then, and her frank description of the way the dwarven dragons lived pulled gasps from their audience, but there wasn't the disgust that Bilbo had expected. The dwarves' intervention with the orc army had changed the direction of the wind, and it blew now towards war. The dwarves had already more than proven their worth as allies.

After his report, Bilbo took his leave, too tired and heart-sick to spare the time to listen to more politics, and retired with Myrtle to Bag End for a cup of tea and their books. A warm chamomile soothed his nerves, and it was with some reluctance that he went back over to the door at a sharp rapping against it. Over from her burrows, Myrtle peered into the living room, curious, then she padded in when Bilbo opened the door to find Thorin standing outside.

"The meeting's over?" Bilbo asked, blinking. 

"No, but I have said my piece, and your Thain wished to confer with your Mayor and his advisors."

"Ah, um," Bilbo stared, unsure, and it was Myrtle who piped in quickly with, "Would you like a cup of tea?" 

They settled in the living room, and it took Bilbo another long and belated moment to realize how curiously Thorin was looking around, at the corridors that had been enlarged for dragon use, at the way Bilbo's and Myrtle's scents were probably intermingled over almost all of Bag End, as were their things. The tea set, after all, had a kettle with a handle large enough to be used by a bramblescale, and the cups came in hobbit and dragon sizes. 

"It is a different way," Thorin noted soberly, when he saw that Bilbo was watching him, big hands cupped a little awkwardly over Bilbo's fine china teacup. He was a touch over-large for the armchair, and if Bilbo was less tired he would have thought it amusing. 

Myrtle opened her mouth to comment, then seemed to think better of it, lowering her snout to nudge Bilbo instead. "Did you tell them everything?"

"All that I know. My grandfather has counselled honesty."

"I'm surprised that he didn't send your father," Bilbo began, then his ears reddened as he belatedly saw how that would sound to Thorin, even as Thorin quickly frowned.

"I have been educated in diplomacy and the ways of rule since my birth." 

"What Bilbo is saying," Myrtle interjected hastily, "Is that we've met your grandfather, but not the rest of your family."

"Ah," Thorin still seemed a touch suspicious, though his shoulders relaxed. "My father is an alpha, and the only son of my grandfather. My grandmother passed through the Veil during his birth, and Smaug agreed that my grandfather need not take another mate. Therefore, succession passed my father by, to the next omega in the Durin line."

"Which would have been you-"

"As the oldest, by right. But I would have stepped aside," Thorin looked away briefly, "Had Smaug chosen Frerin when he had come of age." 

"Well, uh," Bilbo said doubtfully, with a helpless glance at Myrtle, "Maybe, well, your grandfather looks hale and hearty and um, I hear that dwarves are a long-lived race, so, maybe your sister, um."

"It is one reason why she married as early as possible," Thorin sighed. "She hoped in her headstrong way to try for an omega child that Smaug would accept, to spare me from the bonding." 

Something in the studiedly careful way Thorin said this made Bilbo hesitate. He was close enough to Myrtle that the omega prince's effect on him was muted, but he could still sense a disorienting welter of discordant emotion. "You don't want that?" Bilbo asked, finally, puzzled. "But you would be free to bond with another dragon, wouldn't you?"

"No. The House of Durin has Smaug only, just as the other Houses will only bond with their dragons. It is not only a question of succession, but circumstance." 

Just in case one omega had an accident, Bilbo supposed grimly. What a mess! "I can't say that you dwarves have the right way of going about things," Bilbo shook his head. "It seems ridiculously complicated."

"We are not blessed with a great many dragons," Thorin pointed out, though his smile was tentative as he said this. "I think that it is likely that your Thain will counsel for war," he added, more soberly. "It is my hope that you will not blame us for this development."

"Paladin can counsel whatever he likes," Bilbo set down his tea, appetite lost. "I've said what I had to say. It's up to the Thain now."

"You counselled neither peace nor war."

"It wasn't my place to do so," Bilbo noted quickly, even a Myrtle fluted a sigh. They had discussed their report before they had given it, and had decided together to stay as neutral as possible. The situation had already blown far out of proportion of anything that they could have expected, and both of them weren't certain, themselves, if they still stood where they did on the issue of war.

XX.

Dori looked visibly surprised when Myrtle touched down early on the Bridgefields, with a yawning Bilbo on her back. The burned part of the lands had been trampled down with some help from the steamers, and Aðalstein sat unmoving roughly near its centre, watching the horizon.

Ulrika made a clicking noise at Myrtle, who answered in a trill before bending to allow Bilbo to dismount, and the steamers padded off to join Ósorgr and Scabious. 

"Bilbo!" Paladin greeted him first, beside Dori. "I didn't think that you would come." 

"Yes, well," Bilbo conceded, a little sheepishly, then he found that he had no words to describe his (small) change of heart, gesturing helplessly at the blackened fields around them instead. "Well."

It had been a week into the recovery efforts, and perhaps to everyone's surprise, Paladin had borne up well, young as the new Thain was. Under consultation with the dwarves, Paladin had set up guard posts, bolstered the Shirriff ranks and patrols, and had finally, yesterday, sent out word about the dwarves' true mission, and the full gravity of the situation that lay to the east. 

Dwalin and Dori hadn't thought that honesty would have been the best policy, but Paladin, to Bilbo's relief, had been stubborn about it. Now they waited in the Bridgefields, to see who would volunteer, while Primula stayed behind in Tuckborough to organise refugees and collate other, non-combative offers of help, like supply rosters. 

Palain's smile was nervous. "Yes… I… that. I suppose at least _someone_ came. Ah, good morning, Prince Thorin."

"Just 'Thorin'," Thorin corrected, striding up to them from where he had hopped off Aðalstein's tail, his smile quick and warm as he looked over to Bilbo. "Good morning."

"This was mostly Myrtle's idea," Bilbo admitted quickly, though he hadn't quite argued when she had raised it last night over dinner. The attack on the Shire had unsettled and horrified its dragons, perhaps far more than its hobbits. "What sort of numbers are you hoping for?"

"Even half your number would be of remarkable assistance," Thorin was glancing up, at the empty sky, then he looked back down to Bilbo with a wry smile. "But we'll take what we can get."

There were, by mid morning, two hundred steamers and their riders, all of which were Tooks, Brandybucks and their relatives, most of them young, boisterous and not particularly inclined to listen to Dori, even surrounded by the blackened reminder of what they had already lost. In the end, the riotous crowd of riverslates and barksnouts quietened down only when Aðalstein let out a rumble, and then the first day of training began, with chaos. 

"Already almost more dragons than Erebor," Bilbo told Thorin comfortingly, when they sat in the shadow of Aðalstein's tail during the break for lunch, sharing what Bilbo had packed.

"It is just the first day." Thorin seemed untroubled, leaning back against Myrtle's flank. "More will come."

"If there isn't at least one serious mid air collision by dinner time, I'll be right surprised," Myrtle declared peevishly, having had a close call with more than one excitable riversnout since the morning's practice drills. "I'm going to talk to Poppy and the others again after this. A flight of bramblescales would set everything in order."

Considering that bramblescales mostly bonded with members of the Baggins clan and its extended family, all of whom tended to be sensible and highly practical folk with no taste for adventures, Bilbo personally doubted any such talk was going to be useful in the least, but he said nothing.

Primula and Magnolia arrived after tea, bristling with energy, with poor Drogo and Verbena in tow. Verbena quickly huddled next to Myrtle, the smaller bramblesnout looking long-suffering, but after a few simple air drills, seemed less pained about the entire experience. 

And it _was_ quite a sight, Bilbo had to admit, over the next few days, when the younger Tooks had stopped horsing about. On the day that Blackberry squad (so named by Primula) managed a complete turn over Hobbiton Square with no stragglers and no collisions, everyone cheered, even Dwalin. 

The next day, the Gamgee clan, led by the Old Gaffer seated on elderly, sneezing Tulip, showed up at practice, and not to be outdone, the Bolgers arrived after lunch. The positively ancient clan heads were too old for the exercises, but here Thorin showed a little cunning after all - comfortable chairs had been moved up to the sidelines, and he sat there with them, polite and well-behaved and imperious in his royal finery. 

"They'll explode with self-importance if he keeps that up," Primula called to Bilbo, as they hovered overhead, waiting for Dori's signal. 

There were four squads now, one headed by Bofur and Bifur, one by Paladin, one by Primula, and the last, somewhat to Bilbo's dismay, by Bilbo. Thankfully, most mid-air conversation still had to be done via dragon, which meant that Myrtle bore the bulk of it, but Bilbo was still highly self-conscious about his appointment, temporary or not, of his mixed group of forty steamers and riders. 

"It's a good idea," Bilbo replied, risking a downward glance. "The Old Gaffer will talk, as will Master Bolger, and then the other clans will come."

"I hear that the Prince has been a regular visitor to Bag End," Primula continued, pertly changing the subject. 

"And so?"

"Well," Primula grinned, even as Magnolia snorted, "He's unbonded."

"Are you trying to imply something about my Bilbo?" Myrtle glared over at them, her attention distracted, which was of course the moment that Ulrika whistled out the signal for the ascending pass. The distraction led to a delay which led to a near collision between Bilbo's squad and Bofur's, which of course led to Bilbo and Myrtle being sternly dressed down by Dori.

Myrtle was in a profoundly poor mood by dinner, even after Bilbo made her favourite fish pie, and as they ate, she grumbled, "In a way, Prim's right. Thorin's scent _is_ everywhere."

Bilbo grimaced, but had to concede the point. This wasn't particularly proper by any stretch of the imagination. "Maybe we should invite Bofur or Ori and Dori and such as well. That way there'll be proper chaperones." 

"I wouldn't suspect you of the _least_ form of impropriety," Myrtle said, clearly offended at the thought, but she soon warmed up to the idea of being able to show their new friends around Bag End.

Ulrika and the other dwarven steamers were perfectly well behaved indoors, despite the obvious unspoken reservation of their riders, and after a while, Bilbo even began enjoying playing host to the odd dwarven visitor after the day's practice drills. At least Ósorgr and the others took Myrtle's mind off the goblin raid, and she delighted in showing them her rooms and her books.

"You'll spoil them at this rate," Bofur told Bilbo once, when they were having a beer at the fireplace, but he was grinning as he said this. The dwarves' steamers were curious about the hobbits and their arrangements, but Bilbo could tell that of all the steamers, perhaps only Ósorgr was really any more than politely interested in the subtleties. It wasn't that Ulrika and the others were less intelligent: they were just used to the lives that they had. 

"Two thousand Dragonguard steamers would have repelled that Orcish army easily," Thorin explained, when Bilbo mentioned this to him doubtfully, when he had gone to the pantry to get more cheese.

"And so?"

Thorin shrugged. "We all have our differences," he said delicately, and then scowled at the sound of a loud belch from Bifur in the living room. 

"Surely you can see that there are-" Bilbo began, about to expound on the topic of ethical dragonkeeping when he realized that Thorin had stepped further into his already crowded pantry, leaving him cornered between the cheeseboard and his jam jars. "Thorin?" 

"We have… not had much time to ourselves to date," Thorin didn't look at him as he said this, though his hands were clenching and unclenching. 

"There _is_ a war going on," Bilbo retorted, trying for light-hearted and coming off reproachful, probably: Thorin's jaw tightened. 

"I think," Thorin said finally, stiffly, "That perhaps the differences in our cultures need to be explored further in full."

"What differences?"

"Things are more… straightforward with the dwarves," Thorin eyed him keenly. "Arrangements of a personal nature are often linear once a mutual understanding is reached, with little uncertainty on either side."

Bilbo knew he could feign puzzlement, but this had been clear enough where Dwalin and Ori were concerned. Both had gone from misunderstandings and mincing around each other to being more or less perfectly in sync in their interactions. It was rather odd to observe, at least for a hobbit. He hesitated, thinking about what to do next-

The kiss startled him. Thorin had leaned in swiftly, for what seemed to be a quick brush on the mouth that lingered when Bilbo brought up a hand in surprise that ended up curled in Thorin's mane. He gentled the kiss even when Thorin trembled and clasped him desperately against him, the strength of his fingers curled tight over Bilbo's hips. He could sense Thorin's exhilaration, less so in the little gasps muffled between them or the shaky reverence of his touch, but in the sun-bright splash of pleasure that would have swallowed the threads of his soul, if he wasn't already held fast by his dragon's heart. 

"I would bond with you if you would have me," Thorin declared when they were parted, pride and determination and self-doubt all at once in his tone, in the careful grasp that he had about Bilbo's shoulders. "And if this does not suit you, then I ask that you tell me, rather than leave me guessing."

"Your grandfather and Smaug-"

"Have no objections."

Despite himself, Bilbo felt a touch of irritation. "Because of the Shire's dragons?"

"There was that," Thorin admitted frankly, "Your people have no formal concept of rank and royalty, but Gandalf informed us that your clan is a well-respected one. But more so than your link to the Shire, and whether or not a true political alliance can be wrought from the bonding…" Thorin hesitated for a moment, then he smiled, thin and faint, "They did hear that you rejected Dwalin."

"… All right," Bilbo blinked slowly. He hadn't expect _that_ story to pop up again, "And?"

"Grandfather was amused. Smaug was curious. And he is not often curious." 

"Ah." Bilbo forced himself to take a deep breath, and then he watched Thorin carefully. "Have you spoken to Myrtle about this?"

"Does she not know?"

"Would it have been enough for Smaug to 'know'?" Bilbo noted, as gently as he could. 

"I will ask." Thorin agreed, looking stubborn, "But regardless, I should like to know your answer."

"I really doubt that I can be persuaded to leave the Shire to live elsewhere, Thorin. Do _you_ understand that?"

"I do." The answer was quick enough that it was obvious that Thorin had spent time thinking over as many possible answers that Bilbo could give, and that was… gratifying, in a way. Flattering. "Visit. You have Myrtle."

Bilbo considered, briefly, making Thorin wait until Myrtle had given her answer, but he knew what that would be, and he knew his own; then he knew, by the way Thorin was blinking at him, trying not to smile, that Thorin had already heard it too. They were bound, not yet formally, but they had fallen together regardless, through fate, through Thorin's persistence, through the rich, passionate tempest of Thorin's soul. It was a mad thing to contemplate in the short span of time that they had spent together, but there it was. 

This time, when they kissed again, it was a slow dance of touch and skin, as though they had practiced the steps together all of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, sorry about the delay. I'm in the winter break right now. :3 Hopefully I can - hopefully! get this monster finished somehow.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceremonies in war are, out of necessity, short and simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a refresher explanation for readers:
> 
> 1\. There are Male and Female alphas and omegas  
> 2\. Unbonded omegas go into heat, bonded omegas don't  
> 3\. Only unbonded alphas are affected by heat  
> 4\. No knotting in this fic, but ok, self-lubrication, fine haha  
> 5\. No mpreg, because of my personal preference. Alpha/omega females have kids.   
> 6\. Only the hobbits have an alpha/omega bond that is more of a personal chemistry sort of thing, close to real life (where sometimes you meet someone and feel instantly a sort of chemistry). Humans and dwarves have a more fanon sort, with the empathy bond plus instincts.   
> 7\. Elves have no aspects.   
> 8\. Dwarven and hobbit societies are post-gendered.   
> 9\. Dragons can act as a sort of suppression device

XXI.

The biggest indication that Myrtle had probably wholeheartedly approved of Thorin long ago, Bilbo found, was her sheer indignation the moment Bilbo cautiously noted that the bonding ceremony was going to be a small and quiet affair. Thorin immediately curled up in his armchair with his teacup in his hands, raising his eyebrows at Bilbo as if to tell him silently that he should expect no support from his quarter.

Bilbo shot him a weary glare, but Thorin merely inclined his head a fraction and continued his studied silence. "Now, Myrtle," Bilbo began soothingly, "I don't think a huge 'do' will be really appropriate in the circumstances."

"Why not?"

"There's a war going on and-"

"And so everyone will need a big party to cheer them up, and nothing's as exciting as a bonding ceremony," Myrtle sniffed loudly. "You can't be thinking of having a _smaller_ party than your last birthday!"

Bilbo had been thinking just that, and he could tell that Myrtle could see it on his face - she let out another loud sniff. Stolid and respectable as the Baggins clan tended to be, they did so like their parties and guests, and his last birthday party had been no different. Or the one before that. Or Myrtle's. 

"You're marrying a Prince, Bilbo, not one of those Proudfoot omegas-"

"That's not very nice," Bilbo murmured, but Myrtle ignored him.

"-what would Thorin's family think of it?" Myrtle finished, changing tack triumphantly, her tail flicking at the polished wood floor. 

Bilbo glanced meaningfully at Thorin, who lifted a shoulder into a shrug. "There'll have to be a second ceremony in Erebor regardless. What happens in the Shire would not concern my grandfather overmuch."

"There you see, Myrtle," Bilbo cut in hastily. "So we'll have the small arrangement in the Shire, for propriety's sake, and then perhaps a larger formal, um, thing, afterwards, in Erebor." 

"It should be the other way about, if it has to be that way," Myrtle disagreed mulishly. "After all, _our_ friends are all here."

In the end, she agreed to a small and formal occasion now, with a larger one that will 'definitely' follow, 'after everything', and Bilbo sat back, relieved. He had his own reasons for not wanting the pomp and ceremony, at least not now. It seemed crass to rub his good fortune in the face of all his neighbors, most of whom had lost or known someone who had lost another. 

And more importantly, Bilbo didn't want this to be a seemingly politically motivated bonding, not to his people and preferably not to Thorin's, for it wasn't, not between them both. If the Shire made a great deal out of the bonding, perhaps Thorin's grandfather and Smaug might think that they could demand more than what they had already asked.

"I didn't think that this was where you would put your foot down," Bilbo told Myrtle later, after Thorin had wandered off after dinner.

"I have eyes," Myrtle retorted loftily, "He seems acceptable and you seem painfully smitten."

"Really." Bilbo hadn't thought that his affection had run to such an extent.

"You may not be moping and carrying on like those silly Brandybuck girls," Myrtle made a flicking gesture with her clawed hands, "But you're distracted of late, and when you're with Thorin, you're almost always watching him. I do want you to be happy, Bilbo," Myrtle said earnestly. "Really, really."

"And here I was thinking that you would have preferred Bofur to come courting," Bilbo noted, feigning surprise, "What with Ósorgr and all."

Myrtle made an outraged, sputtering whistle and shoved her companion roughly with her snout, nearly causing Bilbo to drop the plate he was washing into the sink. "There is nothing of the sort going on about with Ósorgr and I," she said finally, and with a touch more irritation than there should be had that truly been the case, in Bilbo's opinion. "He's just a very pleasant dragon, and besides, bondings and dragon pairings hardly ever coincide."

That was true, but Bilbo smirked anyway, enjoying his rare moment of fun at his dragon's expense - Myrtle mantled her sails in irritation, glowered, huffed, and stomped off loudly to inspect the pantry. She did have her revenge afterwards, of course - in the middle of the warm cup of spiced milk that was his habit before bed, Myrtle noted idly, "I do suppose that Bofur has a gentler soul than Thorin," and made the churring sound of draconic laughter when he choked. 

In the end, the question of _where_ and _when_ was decided fairly quickly; near the end of the first month that the dwarves had come to the Shire, Thorin's scent seemed to grow stronger, spicy and rich and inviting, and Thorin tended to fidget most terribly whenever they were alone. Finally, he cornered Bilbo again, when Myrtle had padded off to show Ulrika her journals, and he whispered to Bilbo in the kitchen, "Can you not sense it?"

"Sense what?"

"My Time," Thorin lowered his voice further, making it almost inaudible over the sounds of dwarves being happily tipsy in his living room.

"Your… oh. Oh!" Bilbo was so surprised that he nearly smashed the cup he was holding, but for Thorin's deft grab. "Uh. I. Hobbits," Bilbo admitted weakly, "Unbonded omegas, that is, show it differently. Um." At Thorin's arched eyebrow, Bilbo sighed. "It's not a scent thing for us," he said finally, unable to find the words to describe something beyond description. It was an automatic sense, between hobbits, more of a behavioural one. Thorin seemed amused, but other than his heavier scent, Bilbo would not have placed it. 

"Our aspects come more intensely to us, I think." Thorin allowed. "So my grandfather believes."

"Intensely?" Bilbo asked weakly. "How so?"

Thorin eyed him curiously, then he tilted his head. "How is it with hobbits?"

"Well, um, our unbonded alphas can become a trifle brash and rude, especially the young. Unbonded omegas have a sort of uncontrollable empathy during heat, so our unbonded omegas, um, tend to become rather exceedingly friendly and cheerful, or most frightfully depressed. It can be rather trying on the nerves if there's no dragon bond in place to act as a buffer. It's the, um, nesting instinct, you see. Some throw parties to keep their moods up." Bilbo faltered to a stop at the positively strange expression on Thorin's face. "Thorin?"

" _Parties_?"

"Only omegas or bonded alphas can go," Bilbo frowned, trying to parse the look on Thorin's face. "I've gone to one or two with Myrtle. They tend to be loud and everyone does tend to end up terribly drunk. The dragons make sure nothing improper happens, of course, but I've seen otherwise respectable omega friends make awful fools of themselves, dancing on tables and whatnot." 

Heat parties were for the young and Tookish, usually, since most older omegas did end up bonded, but Bilbo decided not to add that. It was obviously difficult enough for Thorin to absorb as it was. 

"Do you know what the omegas of Man are like?" Thorin asked finally.

"Not particularly." Bilbo hadn't thought to ask Bard specifically, and wished he had asked Gandalf about everything. The Grey Wizard had departed hastily to Orthanc the moment dragon practice had become a regular thing.

"For us," Thorin began, frowned to himself, then sighed. "For Man, an omega heat is a mating drive, Bilbo. They are… instinctively impelled to find an alpha mate, or seek our their mate if they are already spoken for. Dwarves undergo a similar process, save that unlike the unfortunate omegas of Man, our instincts can be muted by dragonscents. But it is still painful."

" _Painful_?"

"It is like an ache," Thorin watched him keenly. "Soul deep."

"That's…" Bilbo faltered, frowning, "Quite… er, quite strange." 

"Is it so strange?" Here, Thorin smiled gently. "Rather, I would think your people strange. Parties and such indeed!" 

"Clearly we're more civilised in every aspect of social behavior," Bilbo retorted, though this was said with an uncomfortable smile. "Well then, I suppose I could let Paladin know. Umm. If Aðalstein and Ulrika and such aren't enough, sometimes in Tuckborough the riverslates sleep in their Great Hall to keep warm, on the quilts and such. Perhaps-"

"I would spend my Time with you," Thorin interrupted, and his ears reddened even as his eyes darted away. "If-" he stopped himself then, breathed in, and out, his hands clenching stubbornly. 

"Oh. Um." Bilbo straightened up sharply at the thought, trying not to flush, even as he told his suddenly interested libido very firmly to stay put. "That's, well, I'm very flattered, Thorin, but the ceremony-"

"Have it soon, then." Thorin unconsciously pressed the tip of his tongue over his lips in a little lick that did absolutely terrible things to Bilbo's conscience and self-control. "Very soon."

The new sense of urgency made Myrtle wring her claws in horror, bemoaning the lack of time to do anything 'remotely proper', but Bilbo spent all of the rest of the night in a daze, trying not to breathe in too deeply. Thorin had asked to spend his heat with _Bilbo_. This _week_. It was, Bilbo had to admit, a decidedly uncomfortable thought. He wasn't sure what Thorin meant about pain, and he wasn't really sure what he could do about it. What if hobbit alphas couldn't help? Bilbo wasn't sure if he could bear watching Thorin in pain. 

"You're ridiculous," Myrtle told him caustically, when Bilbo told her this. "Perfectly ridiculous." 

"We come from two totally different species," Bilbo pointed out.

"And yet you can feel his soul, and he can feel yours," Myrtle retorted. "As I can see his, pulling ours close."

"'Ours'?" 

"Well," Myrtle glowered at him, "Why do you think us dragons are so concerned about who our companions choose? It doesn't just affect you lot."

"I've always thought that it was a peripheral thing," Bilbo admitted, frowning. 

"It is, for an alpha anyway. But I can still feel something. It's not a bad thing," Myrtle said soothingly, when Bilbo's frown deepened. "Stop worrying."

XXII.

Still, worry he did, even through the hastily arranged ceremony. Bilbo hadn't wanted any pomp and uproar about it all, and in the end, invited only the dwarves (obviously) and the closest of his friends - Prim, Drogo, Hamfast, Esme, Paladin and their dragons. Paladin had the added bonus of actually being able to officiate. They stood in the shadow of Aðalstein, whose apparently unusually stated interest in the proceedings meant that the ceremony had to be carried out close to his bulk, outdoors.

Under the etcher's unblinking stare, Paladin stammered through the words, had to be prompted once by Scabious and once by Magnolia, and then at the end looked so painfully relieved that Bilbo would have laughed out loud, if not for the swift and possessive kiss that Thorin dragged him into. When he parted, he could see Myrtle all but glowing with pleasure, and the bramblescale dipped her head at them both, her wings flicking open and closed. She whistled at Thorin, who clicked something in return, and then he leaned down to kiss Bilbo again.

"This is all terribly unromantic," Esme had said at the end, although she was weeping copiously, "You really must have a proper party after we're done. Not even any rings! Not even your clan! What would your mother have said?"

"Belladonna Took would have thought it quite grand, that's what she would have said, marrying a dwarven _prince_ in the shadow of an etcher," Magnolia said dryly, with a pointed glance at Esme's dragon, Yarrow, and when Yarrow blinked owlishly, confused, Hamfast's Dandelion nudged him, and he fumbled in the barksnout's pack until he came up with a clearly hastily wrapped bottle. 

"Here, Master Baggins. I know you said not to bring gifts, but it's not right getting nothing at all on a bonding ceremony," Hamfast thrust the bottle into Thorin's hands, reddened at the mistake, looked as though he was about to take it back, then calmed down when Dandelion huffed, interjecting gruffly, "Congratulations."

"Thank you both," Thorin said, with a faint smile, though Bilbo could sense the impatience in him as he dutifully thanked everyone else for coming, even Aðalstein, who made a carefully soft rumble in response that made Dwalin arch an eyebrow. 

"Congratulations," Dwalin translated, perhaps unnecessarily, and although he didn't smile, beside him Ori and Dori were grinning, Ulrika making a long trill in pleasure. 

"I'll draw you up a proper gift soon, I promise," Ori said. "It'll be from my family." Even Glóin stepped forward, with a trill from Sigrún, shaking first Thorin's hand, then Bilbo's, and Ósorgr made a long and whistling statement that made Thorin snort and the other omegas snort or laugh. Bilbo tried to pay attention, he did, but Thorin's scent was rich, even over Aðalstein's earth and acid scent, and Bilbo again tried not to breathe in too deeply until they were home.

Once they were through the living room and had placed Hamfast's gift on the mantle, Myrtle eyed Thorin and folded her clawed hands firmly over her underbelly. "I don't suppose Bilbo's explained the house rules?"

"There are house rules?" Thorin somehow managed amusement, even as Bilbo groaned, " _Myrtle_."

"I expect that there won't be any sort of improper carrying on in the shared spaces," Myrtle said firmly, "Because as much as I am very fond of the both of you I can't be-"

"My word on it, Myrtle," Thorin interrupted, definitely amused now, even as Myrtle sniffed, looked awkwardly over to Bilbo, and at his shrug and a smile, muttered a 'good night' and retreated quickly. "There were house rules?" Thorin asked, as Bilbo led him up the stairwell to his bedroom. He would feel nervous about it all, even after everything, if not for how clammy Thorin's hands were, if not for the nervousness he could feel under all of Thorin's want and anticipation. Thorin had never been with another before. It was both a humbling and extremely arousing thing to contemplate.

"Yes, well, and you broke them that time in the pantry," Bilbo retorted, feeling awkward again as he turned to face Thorin, beside his bed that was probably too small, in a room that was definitely rather crowded for a dwarven _prince_. 

He was about to make some sort of wry remark, but Thorin had him in his arms in an instant, and if his kisses were possessive before they were fierce now, consuming him, like a starved man's touch. He could only press Thorin's cheeks between his palms and try to gentle him, reaching out and trying to soothe, but the bond had already taken fast and his omega's urgency was pulsing through it, driving his own desire, and Bilbo was quickly lost and past caring. 

"Armour to your own wedding," Bilbo teased, as Thorin worked out the clasps of his gear with shaky fingers, pretending to examine the fine detail of dwarven metalwork but in fact stroking his fingers and palms over every inch of slowly revealed skin until Thorin was biting down moans, his hands slipping over the catches in his belts. 

"I have to be prepared for any eventuality," Thorin retorted, his grin sharp and beautifully defiant as he finally shucked his chainmail vest to his undershirt. He allowed Bilbo to push him down, onto the bed, but by the Valar, there was nothing submissive about the way he smiled challengingly at Bilbo, teeth bared, and that, over everything, was magnificent. 

Despite his own desires, Bilbo took his time, undressing them both, self-conscious at the start when he unbuttoned his vests, then laughing as Thorin groaned and pulled him up insistently for kisses. He explored Thorin's stockier body curiously, mapping beautifully corded muscle with kisses and caresses, powerful thighs with slow licks, and finally, with Thorin writhing on the bed and cursing in his birth tongue, Bilbo grinned and dragged his tongue up Thorin's very impressive cock until Thorin hissed and bucked, a spurt of cream pooling over his taut belly that Bilbo quickly lapped up. 

"You," Thorin began weakly, flushed, then moaned again when Bilbo curiously cupped heavy balls in his hands, kneading carefully. "Bilbo-!"

"I wouldn't mind a turn on this," Bilbo mused out loud, rubbing a thumb up Thorin's cock, and laughed when Thorin stared at him, utterly shocked. "Oh really? Is it unheard of among the dwarves?" 

He was still laughing when Thorin growled and leaned up to flip them around, awkwardly pulling Bilbo's hand up between his thighs until his fingers pressed against the slick wet of Thorin's entrance, pushing in, making soft, gasping sounds as Bilbo carefully spread him, fingers slippery. Thorin's face was tight with ecstasy when he sank himself down over Bilbo's painfully thickened cock, open-mouthed when he was confident enough to move, and by the Valar, was he _perfect_.

It was over too quickly, and Bilbo might have been of a mind to apologize, had Thorin not looked so lazily self-satisfied. "You will have to miss tomorrow's practice," Thorin told him, as he pulled Bilbo close over ruined sheets. "Perhaps the day after, as well."

"We'll have to eat at some point," Bilbo objected, a little alarmed at the gleam in Thorin's eyes, and Thorin, damn his hide, actually laughed.

"Hobbits," he said fondly, which earned him a sharp nip for his trouble.

During breakfast, Myrtle eyed them both suspiciously, especially with Thorin in his undershirt, but said nothing save to mention that she was going to be Out for the day and Bofur had left a Saddlebag of Things for Thorin in the living room. They barely managed to avoid breaking her house rules when Thorin shot Bilbo a heated, heavy glance behind her back, and on her way out, Bilbo thought that he could hear Myrtle huff something about 'all that carrying on', which made Thorin laugh even as he pounced.

By the third day, the worst of it seemed to be over - Thorin helped Bilbo with the sheets and even with breakfast, while Myrtle pretended to glower at the both of them even over the blackberry crumble that Bilbo had made for her. "This isn't going to happen _every_ time, is it?" she asked, even as she tucked in. 

"Well," Bilbo hedged, when Thorin pointedly refused to look at them both, even as there was a sudden frantic ringing of his doorbell, and he got up, relieved. 

It was Bofur, who smiled at him rather awkwardly, then caught Thorin's eye with a quick gesture that was too fast for Bilbo to follow. Thorin frowned, walking over, and with an apologetic look at Bilbo, spoke quietly with Bofur in the dwarven tongue. 

Bilbo didn't need to be watching Thorin's face to sense his sudden anxiety, not as close as they were now with their bond. "Thorin? What happened?"

"I have to return to Erebor," Thorin bit down on his lower lip, for a brief moment the young omega that he was, then he abruptly straightened up, and was Prince Thorin again. "The Necromancer has begun to make his move."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble in Erebor.

XXIII.

"Ah, Bilbo," Gandalf was smoking from where he had perched on one of the chairs in the Bridgefields, his eyes twinkling as he puffed out smoke rings. "I hear that congratulations are in order."

"Thanks," Bilbo said automatically, even as Myrtle tilted her head and asked, "From who?" They had opted to keep the ceremony low key, after all.

"Oh, I have known the Shirefolk for a very, very long time," Gandalf replied, amused, "And if there is one thing that I have learned about your kind, it is about the futility of asking a Took to keep secrets." 

"Why, that Paladin…!" Myrtle hissed, glancing around the Bridgefields, but thankfully Paladin and Scabious were high in the air above with Dori, watching the squads of steamers execute passes and manoeuvres. 

The Proudfoot clan, the Chubbs and, to Bilbo's surprise, the Gamgees had joined in this morning, which made for about four hundred. More were swelling the ranks every day, which was, on one hand, a relief for the dwarves and an irritation. Newcomers had to be trained from scratch, and with the intake being anything from a trickle to an entire clan, this was, as a result, entirely messy.

"What happened anyway?" Bilbo asked, with a nod of his head towards Aðalstein. High up on the dragon's shoulder, Thorin, Dwalin and Glóin were speaking quietly, while Ori sat lower down, near the spiked spur of the etcher's haunches, occasionally shooting Gandalf and Bilbo a worried glance. 

"The news from Erebor has not been good," Gandalf said, and could be persuaded to say nothing more, puffing out his smoke rings. The eagle was nowhere in sight, but somehow, Bilbo didn't doubt that it was close at hand if Gandalf needed it.

Eventually, Thorin descended, hopping down from Aðalstein's shoulder to a claw before being lowered to the ground. He padded over to them, his expression tight and blank, but Bilbo could sense his unease and worry. "I will return," he told Gandalf, and sounded tired. "Aðalstein will remain with the others in the Shire and continue to train the Shirefolk. I'll ride the eagle with you."

Myrtle made a fluting sound of surprise, even as Bilbo frowned. Whatever the news had been, it had to be serious if Thorin could bring himself to fly via eagle. "Thorin, what's happening?"

Thorin shot the dragons above a studied and pointed glance before lowering his eyes back to Bilbo. "Nothing that the Shire needs to be concerned about," he said formally, and Bilbo sighed, even as Myrtle straightened up.

"Well then, is there something that your _mate_ needs to be concerned about?" she demanded, her tone frosty, and Thorin flinched visibly but didn't back down. 

"Hopefully… not," he murmured, though he wouldn't meet their eyes, and Bilbo shook his head. 

"In that case, then we're going with you." 

"But-" Thorin's gaze jerked up sharply.

"Oh, by the Valar," Myrtle growled, flicking her tail back and forth, "I'll like to see you talk us out of it."

Thorin exhaled, and looked over to Gandalf, as if for help, but the Grey Wizard merely shrugged and continued smoking. Finally, Thorin squared his shoulders and lowered his voice. "Erebor was attacked. The enemy forces bypassed Mirkwood and came over the ranges. They were repelled, but at a cost."

"What cost?"

"My grandfather," Thorin said flatly, "Is gravely injured."

The news stunned Bilbo, along with the wash of grief and anxiety he could sense from Thorin, so it was left to Myrtle to murmur, "I'm very sorry to hear that, Thorin." 

"What about Smaug?" Bilbo found himself asking. Surely the Royal Red would only have permitted its companion to be injured if it was-

"There is no word about Smaug," Thorin stated, and in the stiffness of his tone, Bilbo stepped over, to press a calming hand first on Thorin's arm, then he stepped closer, to hug Thorin to himself, focusing on his own heartbeat, keeping himself calm. After only a moment, Thorin's breathing also eased, and the tension bled from his shoulders. 

"We _were_ meant to be keeping this low key, weren't we," Myrtle said dryly, but she sat back, pleased, and Gandalf had gotten to his feet. 

"I have a few preparations to make, and I have to speak to Paladin. Meet me back here in an hour." Gandalf patted Bilbo's shoulder, his expression sober. "I suggest that you take more time over your preparations than you did last, old friend. You may not be coming home for a long time."

Bilbo reluctantly pulled away from Thorin, whose expression was reserved again. "We'll be back," he told Thorin, who nodded faintly, turning to head back up towards Aðalstein. 

Myrtle fussed all the way back over Gandalf's words, working herself up into quite a state as Bilbo methodically repacked their saddlebags with clothes and necessities, and eventually she gave him an anxious look as he rechecked her saddle. "Do you think Smaug is also gravely injured?"

"If he's anything like any other dragon," Bilbo noted doubtfully. Smaug had been clearly fond of Thrór, after all. "It's not a good thought to have." The Royal Red, after all, was meant to be the bulwark of Erebor's strength, the biggest dragon in the dwarven city, and the strongest. 

"Oh dear," Myrtle sighed, and started fussing again, despite Bilbo's attempts to calm her down, and his nerves were starting to fray by the time he reached the Bridgefields to find Thorin being helped on to the eagle by Dwalin, the wizard already perched on the eagle's back.

"You watch him," Dwalin told Bilbo gruffly, and tightened his jaw when Bilbo nodded. Thorin was flying light - no saddlebags, no gear - and they set off in silence, far faster than the way they had come. 

Bilbo turned to cast one last look at the Shire as they drew level with the clouds, memorising its beautiful rolling fields, its rich hills, trying not to look at the blackened lands close to the mountains, and bit down on a sigh. He glanced up to see Thorin watching him from the eagle, his expression pale and tense, and Bilbo tried to call a reassuring word or two over, but the wind stole his voice. Eventually, Myrtle whistled something instead, and Thorin nodded, managing a wan smile and a nod.

"After everything," Bilbo told Myrtle firmly, "I'm going to try my best to learn some more draconic."

"You were awful at it before," Myrtle retorted, though Bilbo could see how this thought amused her, even in the circumstances, before her sails flattened down again. "There will be an 'after everything', won't there?"

"There will," Bilbo assured her firmly. He had to believe that.

XXIV.

Erebor and Dale were in a strange sort of organised chaos. Work crews of Men and Dwarves were swarming over a horrifyingly ruined swathe of the trading city, which was blackened and still smoking. Other crews were, Bilbo realized with dull horror, burying the dead, some distance further closer to the mountains. Dragon bodies did not burn easily, after all. There were steamers, Valar, and even a couple of spiketails. Smaller graves, presumably for their riders, had already been dug, fresh-covered. Myrtle let out a low, moaning sound as they passed overhead, and he stroked her neck, shuddering.

The open air part of the pens seemed to have been converted into a large triage section. Elves and the dwarves were scattered about, bandaging and adding poultices to their huge charges. Again, there were far more steamers damaged than the others, though a handful of spiketails were peppered with bandages, and one firedrake sat curled at the end of the section, ichor still seeping through the bandages and gigantic splint set to its hind leg. 

An elf peeled away from the triage section, hurrying towards them as they landed, and behind him came the sinuous length of an elven dragon, this one sleek and black as midnight, an iridescent shimmer catching its scales on the sunlight.

"Lord Elrond," Thorin greeted the elf formally, his expression frozen and tight.

"Your Majesty," Elrond replied in turn, formally, and sighed. "A sorry business, Lord Thorin, and I am sorry to be the bearer of ill news, but you are now King Under the Mountain."

Gandalf said something sharply to Elrond in Elvish, and Elrond tipped his head before replying in turn. As they spoke, Bilbo dismounted hurriedly and went to Thorin, grasping his arm. Thorin shot him a wild-eyed look, intense with anguish, then he took in a shuddering breath, and looked back to Elrond.

"Where is Smaug?"

"In your throne room, refusing treatment. Be careful," Elrond added quietly. "For he is near mad with grief."

"Of those moods of his, I have had the benefit of experience," Thorin said grimly, and gently prised Bilbo's fingers from his elbow. "May I call on you when I have calmed him down?"

The elven dragon behind Elrond spoke, in Elvish - no, Quenya, Bilbo's memory supplied - the words slower, formal and more musical than the tongue that Gandalf had spoken in, and after a moment, Elrond responded in the same. The dragon eyed Thorin, then Elrond, with a look of gentle, patient reproach, then it blew out a sigh.

"Call on me when you have calmed him down," Elrond nodded. 

"Don't follow me," Thorin told Bilbo sharply, as they fell in step behind him on their way to the main gates, where a gathering crowd of dwarves had come, grim-faced, to watch their prince return to his throne. 

"Keep us away if you can," Myrtle retorted.

"Smaug is-"

"We're faster than him," Myrtle cut in, and at Bilbo's nod, Thorin muttered something under his breath, glancing up when he was hailed from the gate.

It was Balin. Dwalin's brother looked tired, but he looked them over briefly and then started to brief Thorin in the dwarven language, leaving Bilbo to glance over at Gandalf, who smiled at him, oddly untroubled. At Bilbo's raised eyebrow, Gandalf arched one of his own, but said nothing else, even when there was a sudden, deep throated roar that shook the very ground under Bilbo's feet. 

Smaug.

Thorin snapped something at Balin and started to hurry, the crowd parting quickly before him, and although Balin shot Bilbo and Myrtle a startled look, they followed as well, down the great stair to the huge stone bridge that led towards the throne room. They could see the cherry red glow of fire and smell dragon's breath and ichor long before they could see Smaug, and Bilbo pressed a palm to Myrtle's flank. She was trembling, but her sails were flared with defiance, and she nudged him briefly with her snout. 

The next roar shook Thorin off his feet, and Bilbo let out a yelp of shock, but Myrtle had already darted forward, steadying Thorin with a wing, and he straightened up, with a quick and frozen glance at them before he started forward again, slowly, this time. Bilbo could sense no fear in him, even facing a maddened firedrake, jaw set, forging forward, and it was with a spiralling sensation of wonder that Bilbo realized, with bone-deep certainty, that had he not loved Thorin before this moment, he would now. 

And then Smaug reared up his head, his gigantic maw rising up over the throne platform, and the damage - Valar - the _damage_. One brilliant golden eye was milky and dull now, with horrific acid scars over that side of Smaug's muzzle. Deep gashes that still bled viscous ichor ran down his serpentine neck, and when Smaug balanced himself, wings arched, Bilbo could see deep rents in the wingsail. Myrtle froze in shock, wide-eyed, and they could only watch, silenced, as Smaug bent his head to regard Thorin with a low and bubbling snarl.

Thorin stood firm, hands clenched, and replied in draconic. Smaug growled in return, loud enough that Bilbo's teeth felt as though they were rattling in his skull, but Thorin merely spoke again, repeating what he had said, then again, until Bilbo nudged Myrtle for a translation.

"He says," Myrtle whispered, "That the stone-born call their greetings to the sky-born, and give their friendship and allegiance."

Puzzled, Bilbo frowned, but at that moment Smaug blew out a lance of flame, barely high enough that they weren't singed, but this close, Bilbo could feel that awful, searing heat, that burned against his skin even without touching him. Myrtle stepped closer to Bilbo with a squeak, terrified, but Thorin stood firm, repeating his line in draconic.

Half-expecting Smaug to reply with more flame, Bilbo was relieved when Smaug spoke instead, in a deep rumble. "'My companion is dead,'" Myrtle translated, after another nudge, "'And you are not he. You are bonded now, to an alpha. Leave me to my grief.'"

Bilbo could feel Thorin's pain at this through their bond, and before he could help himself, he said, "Thorin came back for you, Smaug. Can't you sense that?"

Smaug glared at him, and even as Bilbo was beginning to regret speaking, abruptly, Smaug switched to Westron. "You." The contempt in Smaug's tone made him stiffen. "Soft little things, hobbits. Do they burn easily?"

"I'll like to see you try that," Myrtle snapped hotly, angry enough at the threat that she had mantled, despite her terror. "Thorin _loves_ you, you silly old thing - he's loved you since the beginning of his _life_! No alpha bond can replace that. Can't you see that?"

"Perhaps a flight of your kind may have given me pause, little dragon," Smaug retorted, "But you are also a soft little thing, all by yourself. How dare you raise that tone with me?"

"How dare _you_ speak to us like this?" Myrtle was so angry now that Bilbo could barely sense her fear any longer. "We're not _your_ subjects! _You_ wanted the Shire to help you! So what if you're bigger, and meaner? There's two thousand of us! Together, we're stronger than Erebor!"

Thorin was staring at Myrtle in amazement, and Bilbo wished his ears didn't feel as though they were reddening. Placing a palm on her flank, Bilbo cleared his throat. "Er. We're really sorry about your loss," he said finally, and politely. "King Thrór was wise, and he seemed kind."

Smaug glared at him through his one good eye, and just as Bilbo braced himself for more fire, the firedrake abruptly dipped his head, with a keening, howling sound like thunder that echoed off the walls. After a moment, Smaug was answered from deep below, from the forges, and to Bilbo's surprise, the faint sound of whistles and clicks came from above and around as well, from the dwarven omegas in Erebor. Myrtle glanced about, blinking, then she too, spoke in draconic, and Smaug let out a long, moaning sigh, and looked back to Thorin. 

"'Your brother and your sister cried when they were presented to me after their birth,'" Myrtle translated, when Smaug spoke again. "'As did your father and your grandfather before them, for they were newborn and knew only to be afraid. But you, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, you laughed and reached out for me. The skyborn call their greetings to the stone-born, and offer their friendship and allegiance. Welcome home, King Under the Mountain.'"

Thorin relaxed visibly, and the pulse of emotion from him was too intense to disentangle until Bilbo leaned back against Myrtle. Wonder, as Smaug lowered his head carefully, allowing Thorin to run his hand over the eye ridge of the uninjured eye. Joy. Grief, and resolve. He murmured something to Smaug in draconic, and at Smaug's soft whistle, turned back to Bilbo. 

"Kindly fetch Lord Elrond."

XXV.

"Good work," Gandalf said approvingly, when he found Bilbo and Myrtle back under Myrtle's favourite tree in the Dragonguard pen. Behind him, the omega caretakers and a few Dragonguard shot the wizard suspicious glances, but none dared approach to tell him to leave the grounds, and certainly the dragons themselves merely eyed him with curiosity.

"What _did_ happen?" Myrtle asked, gesturing at the distant city of Dale.

"Some of the Necromancer's forces attacked Dale. Erebor rose to its defence. I gather an undead etcher was responsible for Smaug's wounds, that it tore at the firedrake even after its wings and jaw had been smashed by Smaug's spiketail guard." Gandalf sighed, settling down on the stone wearily. "It would not have gone well for Smaug if the Elves hadn't intervened." 

"The Elves?"

"I gather that Prince Legolas talked Siloratan into venturing out to Dale despite his father's objections," Gandalf's lips twitched briefly into a smile, "And Siloratan talked Lord Elrond's closest friend, Andúnë, into following, after which it was only, I hear, a matter of logical progression."

"Then this is not going well at all!" Bilbo said, appalled. 

"No," Gandalf agreed soberly, "But the skirmish _was_ won, and perhaps the Necromancer will be more cautious. We do need the Shire more than ever, dear friend."

"We couldn't have done anything about an undead etcher," Myrtle pointed out.

"Perhaps not. But there is a great much else that a host of dragons could do." Gandalf glanced up over at the spur of rock, where the eagle was a silent, looming figure. "I think I will have to speak to the eagles again. We need all the help that we can get."

"I guess we do." Bilbo settled comfortably back against Myrtle. Somewhere in Erebor, Thorin was calm, and dimly, he could sense something different about Thorin's soul. A dragon bond, and a jealous one. He was glad for Thorin, but he couldn't help feeling a little put out, as well. It was an alpha thing, likely, especially so soon out of Thorin's heat, wanting to run back in there and assert himself, but he knew that he would only get underfoot if he barged back in right now. It was still an unsettling feeling, and he fidgeted, biting down on a sigh. Maybe-

"I would stay longer in Erebor if I were you," Gandalf said out loud then. "He does need you both."

"I could see that," Myrtle muttered, then she glanced at Bilbo as though in surprise. "You mean, you couldn't see that?"

"Well-"

"All that carrying on must have put you quite out of your mind," Myrtle flicked her tail against the pebbles. "That mean old wyrm! I'm not going to forgive him, ever!"

"That's going to be a hard thing to have going on," Bilbo noted dryly, "What with Thorin's dragon bond."

"That's his business," Myrtle retorted tartly, and was so sulky at the reminder of it that she was silent all the way until Gandalf got up to leave. "Where are you headed now?" she asked, curious.

"Back to the White Council." Gandalf sighed. "And then perhaps to the Eagles. We shall see. Farewell again, for now. And don't fuss," he added, when Myrtle opened her mouth. "After what the both of you have done today, I have better hopes for the future than I did before."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics as usual(...?)

XXVI.

The royal chambers - palace! - were huge, ostentatiously rich, and confusingly built, rather like a rabbit warren that was geometrically designed and then polished almost to a mirror sheen. Bilbo rather missed the guest complex, which was built close at hand and higher up: his room there would have been luxurious, but not intimidatingly so. Somehow, the sheer fact of Thorin's status had never really been brought home to Bilbo until now.

Tiny tiles of gold, silver and precious gems made up gorgeously intricate murals along wide corridors, lush with tapestries and sculptures; antique weapons, plaques and framed scrolls were affixed to perfect, seamless pillars. Guards were always close at hand, and at present, Bilbo had taken refuge in a balcony overlooking the forges, feeling overwhelmed and wishing that he had insisted on taking Myrtle along after all. 

While he was contemplating escape, a step behind him made him turn quickly. A female dwarf, broad-shouldered and sturdily clad in chainmail, with a trimmed beard - Valar, he was never going to get used to that - was eyeing him keenly, and Bilbo had just belatedly realized how similar her features were to Thorin's when she was marching forward, hand outstretched.

"Bilbo Baggins, I presume. I am Dís, Thorin's sister."

"I'm honored to meet you," Bilbo replied politely, shaking her hand, then hesitating again as another, older male dwarf strode in behind her. 

"Thráin," Thorin's father introduced himself curtly, also with a bone-crunchingly firm handshake. Like Thrór, Thráin had measured, careful eyes, which now seemed tired and a little lost. "Congratulations. And thank you."

"For?" Bilbo asked, puzzled, and Dís let out a laugh that made Thráin snort.

"Perhaps we should have a beer when we have more time." Thráin clapped him heavily enough on the shoulder to shift Bilbo a step. "But for now, I must seek out my son. We have some good news at last, thank Mahal."

"Good news?" Bilbo prompted Dís, when they were alone.

"The Iron Hills have agreed to help us." At Bilbo's blink, Dís came to an instant misunderstanding, scowling slightly. "The House of Durin does have uses for its alphas other than breeding stock, Master Baggins. My father and I have been running ourselves ragged, trying to find support from the other dwarven holds for our war."

"The Shirefolk do not see their alphas as much different from their omegas," Bilbo noted gently. "Or I would not have been sent to Erebor."

Dís deflated a little, abashed. "I must apologise. It's quite all right for my father, but as a female alpha member of the House," and here she made a surprisingly filthy gesture for a princess, "I am not really expected to have a great many social roles."

"I don't see why not, you do seem sensible enough to me." Trust the dwarves to overcomplicate everything! "Other than the Iron Hills, what about the other holds?"

"Reluctant at first, but they'll be more receptive now, I think." Dís' glance was fierce. "Now that we can promise a solid defence against the undead."

"If you mean my people," Bilbo noted wryly, "I'm afraid that we still have much to learn by way of training."

"Still. The numbers are there." Dís scowled at him, narrowing her eyes challengingly. "You are not exactly what I had expected."

"Well-"

"You have a strange face," she continued, ignoring his arched eyebrow, "Not handsome in the least, or pretty. And for the rest of you, if I couldn't scent you I would have thought that you were an omega. Alphas tend to have a restless sort of… _energy_ at all times. You do not."

"Maybe it is the dragon bond."

"Yes, and there is that," Dís continued, her tone now as fierce as her eyes. "A _dragon_ bond, and you are an _alpha_."

"As are you." Warily, Bilbo wondered whether he really should excuse himself. It wasn't uncommon for family alphas to be unfriendly at first instance to a new alpha, particularly if they were the omega's siblings, but Dís was _hostile_. Perhaps it was a dwarven thing? Painfully aware that he was somewhat out of his depth and utterly unaware of social ritual, Bilbo hesitated. 

"Perhaps my brother was too young yet to know what he wanted."

"And you are younger still than he, yet bonded."

Dís' lip curled. "Do you ever get angry?"

The question nearly threw him, but Bilbo still managed his smile. "Not if I can help it. Most terrible things, temper tantrums. Very impolite."

Dís snorted, stamping over to the balcony to look over it. "What a mess!" she said finally. "I leave for the West and when I come home, the war has escalated, and then in no time at all, my grandfather is dead, and my brother returns, bonded. Yet strangest of all," she added, this time sounding genuinely perplexed, "Smaug has accepted Thorin."

"I was told that Smaug's acceptance was only to be a matter of time, no matter what happened."

"Maybe." Dís folded her arms, her eyes narrowed. "But you and your dragon put up a very convincing act, if that was what it was."

"An act of what?"

Just as abruptly as her aggression had risen, it faded - Dís' stare was now purely curious. "You really do never get angry."

"As I have said, I try not to. Why do you ask?"

"Well, as part of Erebor's ruling council-"

"Wait, _what_?"

"You did not know?" Dís said sweetly, "As the king's mate, you'll have a seat on his council of advisors. You'll be able to make decisions about Erebor. You'll also have the key to our treasury."

"All right, firstly, I wasn't told of this," Bilbo noted, frowning, "And secondly, I'm going to have to decline. I don't know anything about politics, and I wasn't going to stay in Erebor after the war. Thorin told me that was fine. As to your treasury, I'm sure it's very handsome and all, but if I know anything about war it's that it's a very expensive endeavour, so you'll probably need the funds for rebuilding-" 

This time, Dís actually grinned at him before she interrupted, and it was sharp, but there was still amusement there. "So you have no lust for power, and no interest in riches. Either you are an uncommonly boring character, or-"

" _Sister_." Thorin growled from behind her, striding into the balcony. Dís transferred her grin to Thorin, saying something in the dwarven tongue, and when he bared his teeth, laughed, inclined her head at Bilbo, and tried to leave the balcony. Thorin blocked her way, snapping something at her, and she sniffed, switching to Westron. 

"He's made of sterner stuff than that, Mahal. You're far luckier than you think, Thorin." At Bilbo, her nod was now polite, her smile quick. "Perhaps we should speak again, Master Baggins. After all, you do have to undergo a formal bonding ceremony in Erebor, which I would be pleased to arrange on your behalf." 

" _Dís_ ," Thorin glared at her, but she had tipped her head unrepentantly at him and stepped around, striding away. Once her footsteps couldn't be heard any further, he exhaled loudly. "Father said that he had to leave you with her, and extends his apologies."

On closer look, Thorin did seem flushed and a little out of breath, as though he had run over from wherever his father had found him. "We had a pleasant conversation." Bilbo allowed Thorin to draw him closer. Thorin hadn't yet changed his armour, and he looked tired and worn. 

"Truly? My sister can be very offensive." Thorin stroked Bilbo's cheek, his expression still tense.

"She's the sole alpha in your generation," Bilbo pointed out. Aggressive as Dís had been, he hadn't really sensed any malice behind her words. "It's not uncommon for her to feel protective of her siblings. How was your day?"

"It would have been better had there been more of you in it."

It should have sounded saccharine, but Thorin was far too earnest as he said it, and Bilbo hid a smile instead. "I meant Smaug."

"Ah." Thorin's hand stroked hesitantly down Bilbo's back, then more confidently when he arched against it. "Not even the elves have poultices strong enough to ease the pain of a dragon as big as a firedrake," he said finally, "But he is a little better." 

"His eye?" Bilbo tried not to shudder at the memory of it.

"He has one left." Thorin's tone was flat, and Bilbo looked up doubtfully at Thorin this time, saw the pain in his jaw, and closed his eyes, pressing his cheek back over chainmail, kept his breathing even until Thorin's synced up and in place. "And he will recover from the rest."

"That's a relief."

"And," Thorin's grip was stronger now, possessive, "He would like to see Myrtle and yourself again tomorrow."

" _Tomorrow_? What for? And _Myrtle_?" Bilbo had been looking forward to no further contact with the Royal Red, if only because being in Smaug's presence when the dragon spoke made him physically uncomfortable, what with all the rumbling.

"You _are_ my mate," Thorin noted wryly, with a kiss over Bilbo's forehead. "Some things must be resolved."

"What things?" Bilbo asked, suspicious, but Thorin only wanted to kiss, and after a while, he gave in. 

Thorin's bed chambers - Valar, his _bed_ \- was definitely far bigger than what Bilbo was used to: it could probably fit all of his nieces and nephews. Thorin pulled him onto the quilts impatiently when he tried to explore, and Bilbo ended up laughing, straddling Thorin's waist, kissing him and clutching at his cheeks. He kissed Thorin until his omega was gasping and dazed, then, with a lazy, hungry grin, Bilbo managed to get Thorin's boots and breeches off him, and took Thorin's heavy cock into his mouth. 

He was a trifle out of practice, but it wasn't as though Thorin would know, and as to Thorin - he was coming beautifully undone, bucking and panting against the sheets, wild-eyed, hands clawed over the sheets, crying out when he finally did peak.

"Not done yet," Bilbo informed him, a little hoarsely, when Thorin frowned at him and reached tentatively over for Bilbo's tented breeches. "Turn around, on your knees. I think," Bilbo said mildly, when Thorin obeyed, leaning down to kiss over the arch of his spine, "That I can get a little more than _that_ out of you, don't you think?"

Thorin let out a rasping laugh, his cheek turned against the pillows. "Try and see."

XXVII.

The meeting with Smaug turned out to be far less horrible than Bilbo and Myrtle had expected. Smaug was almost conciliatory, and although he obviously seemed to prefer to pretend that the showdown the day before had never happened, he expressed surprise and disappointment that Bilbo had no interest in joining the council. He did seem amused, overall, which was probably better than angry and breathing fire. A little rueful, perhaps.

Bilbo wasn't really paying attention, focused instead on Thorin, leaning against the throne, relaxed as he interrupted now and then. There was still an uneasy sense to the bond, Bilbo felt, but at least it was there, folded here and again with a hesitant sort of happiness. A great and old wound had begun to mend, and with that, Bilbo could feel Myrtle… _settle_ , around them, tentatively accepting the new presence in the intricacies of their links, and wryly, Bilbo supposed that he too, was beginning to accept it. 

Smaug's presence was more like an echo, a newness around the touch of Thorin's soul, which was as a result less grasping, less desperate for his. He did miss it a little, but he knew that this would have happened regardless of whether he had chosen Thorin or another hobbit bonded to a dragon. 

"Something good came of this then," Bard told Bilbo later, when Myrtle decided that they should visit the King of Dale to see how he was doing. They stood at the balcony, looking out over the construction efforts. Thorin was being briefed again by Balin, back in Erebor, catching up on the war's reports, and Bilbo hadn't wanted to stay in the Dragonguard area, with all the injured dragons still about. 

"I hope so. That is to say," Bilbo amended hastily, "What happened was still a tragedy-"

"We are at war," Bard interrupted, with a deep sigh. "Tragedies happen. It would have gone worse if the elves had not shown themselves." He directed this at Legolas, who had climbed nimbly up a seemingly impossible stone wall to a carved lion, and was perched on it like a gangly bird, watching the horizon.

"Matters were quiet in the Greenwood," Legolas replied, glancing down when he belatedly realized that he was being addressed. "Scout patrols were thinner than usual. It was not by any means a stretch of the imagination that something might have been coming for Erebor, or Dale." 

"It was a very great stretch of the imagination," Bard disagreed, "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment or the rescue."

"You aren't happy that the Elves came?" Myrtle asked, openly puzzled at the bite to Bard's tone.

"Peace," Legolas had swung down lithely to the bannister, then stepped off onto the balcony, all in one fluid movement, as though utterly oblivious to the deadly drop just to his right, and Bilbo didn't miss how Bard tensed up at that. "The King of Dale was… surprised by elven aerial tactics."

"Your dragons fly. _You_ can't," Bard growled, but Legolas had padded over, pressing the fingertips of his left hand to Bard's bared throat, and Bard swallowed hard, a flush colouring his cheeks, then he cleared his throat as Legolas smiled and dropped his hand. "How is training going?"

"We're still trying to get the hang of mid air manoeuvres," Bilbo admitted, deliberately pretending that he hadn't seen anything remotely intimate. "Which is to say, we're going to need _months_. We haven't even touched archery, or any of the executions that we'll need to face a dragon. Valar, half the squads can't execute sharp mid air turns without flying into each other!"

"I thought as much," Bard said, with a sigh. "It's worrying. I don't know how many more raids we can take. The last one was already disastrous."

"The White Council may have plans," Myrtle said doubtfully. 

"If they had no plans at this stage, I would be well and truly worried," Bard groused. "Everyone in Dale saw Smaug fall from the sky. There's terror in the city like I've never felt it before. People want to leave. People _have_ been leaving."

"Should they not stay and defend their homes?" Legolas asked, glancing out over the city. It was quieter now, Bilbo noted, a little sadly. The marketplace was empty. 

"Men aren't usually as brave as all that," Bard said wryly. "I've asked people to stay, but I can't force them to."

"All this misinformation can't be good for morale," Bilbo sighed. "D'you think we should ask? Where is the White Council now?"

"In the Greenwood," Legolas supplied, with a gentle smile. "Hence the proximity of Lord Elrond."

"Oh, then, wouldn't you know-"

"Sadly," Legolas' smile faded, "I was not informed of their plans. But perhaps their very presence is why the Necromancer has begun his move. He must be worried. Lady Galadriel has come, with her Nenya. Surely the Lady, Lord Elrond, my father and the Wizards are sufficient."

"Sufficient to do what?" Myrtle asked, blinking.

"Why, to pierce the darkness in Dol Guldur," Legolas said enthusiastically, "To drive the Necromancer from his lair in a battle that would be sung of through the ages!"

Bilbo and Bard exchanged pointed looks behind the Prince's back. Immortal Elf or not, perhaps elves did count their youth in the weight of centuries. "Well, if it doesn't come to that soon," Bard muttered, "There won't be anything left of Dale. Still," Bard added, with a faint smile, "If your Shirefolk are anything like you and Myrtle, perhaps bravery will carry the day in lieu of a year's worth of training."

"Oh, Valar," Bilbo muttered, "Not you as well!" 

They had been too worried about the morning's meeting with Smaug to notice anything truly different, but afterwards, on their way out, it had been disturbingly obvious how the dwarves respectfully stepped out of their way, and even Balin had regarded them with careful curiosity; the whisper of Smaug's name had followed them out of the Gate. Small wonder, perhaps. The confrontation with Smaug had probably been loud enough for all of Erebor to hear. 

"It is a most uncommon thing," Legolas looked inquiringly between them both. "For one of our dragons to face a firedrake, certainly, that has been done. Another firedrake, another etcher, perhaps. But few other dragons would have dared to stand their ground instead of trying to flee with their companion."

"He was so rude," Myrtle muttered, irritated again at the reminder of the incident, and Bard swiftly changed the subject. Still, the idea of checking on the White Council stuck in Bilbo's mind, and he raised it later with Thorin over dinner.

"If Prince Legolas was unable to discern their plans, I doubt that you would be able to," Thorin's response was blunt. 

"I suppose so." That was true. Bilbo sighed. Gandalf's advice or not, he really would be of more use back in the Shire after all. He was probably terribly out of practice by now. "Myrtle and I will return to the Shire, then." 

Thorin dropped his fork, flushed slightly, and picked it up again. "Why?" 

"Why not? I'm of no real use here, and we do need to get back into practice." Myrtle had protested loudly, somewhat to Bilbo's surprise, but she had seen the logic of it after a while. 

"You could practice with the Dragonguard."

"I'll slow everything down, and besides, we're hardly going to be using the same tactics. If anything, if you start everyone on bows, we're going to end up shooting each other rather than the enemy," Bilbo noted dryly. "Shooting arrows with your feet firmly on the ground is difficult enough."

Thorin was frowning at his plate now, without even trying to eat. "Is this about Smaug?"

"No, why would it be about Smaug?"

"You'll be riding Myrtle into battle?" Thorin's unease was palpable, even if they weren't bonded.

"That's what you've asked of the Shire, haven't you?" Bilbo finally felt along the edges of Thorin's self, of the anxiety, the longing, the fierce possessiveness, and smiled. Thorin _did_ need him. That was what Myrtle had sensed all along, despite probably only being able to hear an echo of Thorin, just as Bilbo could only feel an echo of Smaug. But still- "Surely the king's mate can't spend all his time skulking around the city, being a lazy layabout."

"You were meant to be on the council, a seat that you declined."

"With good reason. Thorin," Bilbo tried gently, when Thorin sucked in a tight breath, "I don't want to leave you either, it's going to be difficult for me and for Myrtle. You're my mate-"

"Then do not!"

"-but," Bilbo continued firmly, "I cannot out of conscience have been the cause of all this interest in the Shire, however inadvertently, without being involved in the war effort further."

"Your reasoning is unsound," Thorin looked up then, and the pleading was in his eyes, though not his tone. "Stay."

"You have always known that I would not live in Erebor," Bilbo said gently. "If anything, I doubt that Myrtle would stand for it, staying in that stall rather than in Bag End."

"Changes can be made," Thorin said, though he sounded doubtful even as he said this.

"Not unless they're for every dragon that you have," Bilbo shook his head. "I won't be away forever, Thorin. Valar willing, when I return, it will be with your army."

Thorin chewed on his lower lip, looking away, then he exhaled. "Give me just this week." When Bilbo hesitated, Thorin added, behind gritted teeth, "Please."

"All right."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for departure.

XXVIII.

Bilbo and Myrtle found Gandalf sitting on the rocky spur of the fallen etcher's shattered haunch, smoking, and he raised his eyebrows at them when Myrtle landed at a respectful distance. Bereft of whatever horrific magic that had animated it, the dead etcher had fragmented when it had hit the ground, a clear indication of how old the corpse was: its craggy pelt was almost dust at sections, and its bones had long been worn fragile.

Plans were being made for the etcher's body to be removed higher into the ranges, to be left on the gray slopes where only snow could fall, the way etchers were traditionally interred, becoming part of the stone themselves. This confused Myrtle, but Bilbo supposed it made sense. After all, whoever the etcher had been in life, its body's use in death had been out of its control. Until the bodies of the Dragonguard had been buried and Dale was reinforced, however, there was no manpower to do anything about the etcher, and the dwarves and Men gave the unsettling corpse a wide berth.

"Er," Bilbo called to Gandalf, unsettled. "I've been told to tell you that we'll be leaving within the hour. Should you really be sitting there?"

"I was taking a look." Gandalf scrambled down, striding towards them, putting out his pipe.

"At the body?" Myrtle asked, unable to hide how appalled she was. "It's just a body now. The magic's gone."

"On the contrary," Gandalf said, with a glance back at the massive, broken jaw, "I felt that a closer inspection might prove to be of great help to our cause."

"Really? Why?" Bilbo asked thoughtlessly, then he added, belatedly, "You're trying to see where the magic is coming from?"

"Very good, Bilbo," Gandalf noted approvingly. "I must say, I've always been very fond of the Shirefolk. Your minds are quick, and often rather less hidebound. Yes. Magic is rather… like music. Often, you must be born to it, though you can, sometimes, learn it with some luck and practice. And, like music, it helps if you have an instrument."

"Your staff," Myrtle stated, her wings flicking open in curiosity. "Oh! I see." 

"It takes a very great deal of magic to move anything so large," Gandalf continued, with a gesture at the etcher, "Let alone an army of them. Ergo, there's likely some sort of… notational aid. Some sort of focus, perhaps. And whatever it might be, it will be very dangerous."

"Did you find it?" Bilbo asked uncomfortably, eyeing the corpse with a new sort of dread. 

"What I could of it." Gandalf sighed. "I'll be returning with the Greenwood with my findings. Along with your new entourage, I hear." 

"My new what?"

"You'll be bringing a firedrake with you back to the Shire," Gandalf arched an eyebrow. "Do keep up, old friend."

"Oh, you mean Gíslaug," Myrtle piped up, to Bilbo's surprise. At his glance, she flipped her wings shut, looking a little embarrassed. "I meant to tell you, but I got a little distracted when I saw Gandalf sitting there. She's the injured firedrake. Since the poultices won't work and her bandages and splint might catch fire if she goes back down into the forge, she says that Thorin asked her companion, Gunnar, if Gunnar would be willing to take them both to the Shire to help out with training. She's quite curious."

"Really?" Bilbo had mentally pegged all firedrakes to be as haughty as Smaug, and felt a little guilty.

"Oh yes. They're not originally from Erebor, but from Ered Mithrin. She got injured when she tried to help Smaug slow his descent, when his wing was shredded." Myrtle shuddered. Bilbo _had_ been wondering how something as huge as a firedrake had managed to get so terrifyingly scratched _and_ break one of its hind legs. 

"Imagine the look on Paladin's face!" Bilbo said, blinking. This was going to be rather awkward. 

"She'll be going with part of her usual crew - those who aren't injured," Myrtle said doubtfully, "I suppose that will be fine, won't it?"

"It will have to be," Gandalf snorted. "How would the Shirefolk learn how to battle firedrakes if there's no firedrake to test them? Sending Aðalstein was all very well, since he is older, and patient, and won't be hurt by steam, but once they finish training with him they're going to need the real thing. Still… Bilbo, I did strongly suggest that you stay within Erebor."

"And why?"

"Thorin is young, and new to the throne," Gandalf said wearily. "I thought perhaps that his father's presence would help, but Thráin is due to return to the Iron Hills to facilitate a transfer of resources. So Thorin will be here alone, to bear the weight of the greatest dwarven city in this side of Middle Earth."

"It's not as though I know anything about governance," Bilbo noted defensively, though he could feel himself wilt a little. "And he has Balin, and Smaug."

"True." Gandalf still exhaled grumpily, though. "But I did so hope that a greater presence of the Shire's mindset might prove beneficial to the war efforts. Still, you should do what you must, and I suppose your presence in the Shire might help the recruitment effort. No doubt news of your engagement has spread all over it now."

Myrtle groaned, and Bilbo patted her flank comfortingly. He _had_ quite forgotten about that. "Maybe we could avoid the Sackville-Bagginses indefinitely," he said soothingly. "Valar knows they're very unlikely to show up to practice."

The thought of Lobelia and Knapweed at practice so amused Myrtle that she cheered up, and was still in a good mood by the time they returned to Erebor proper with Gandalf. Some distance from the main gate, Gíslaug lay patiently on the rock while her harness was being strapped on, with packs of supplies arranged neatly beside her. Unlike Aðalstein, the firedrake had a full complement of dwarven omegas swarming over her harness, wearing a surcoat over their chainmail that bore two crests, a small one on the sleeves and a large one over the chest. The crests were also embossed over her saddlebags, as well as over the huge buckles that caught the harness in place around her belly.

Bilbo recognised the smaller crest. After all, he had seen it all over Thorin's palace. 

He was still gawking when a dwarf up along Gíslaug's neck noticed them and swung expertly down clasps and claws until he reached the ground, padding up towards them with a grin. He was a dark-haired dwarf with a wide fan of a beard, threaded liberally into braids clasped with bronze and silver. He had two slender knives strapped to his belt, but rather uncommonly, strung across his back was a bow, a quiver of arrows at his hip. 

"Gunnar," Gunnar introduced himself, with a strong handshake. "Pleased t'meet you, Master Baggins. I hear we'll be off t'new parts, full o' dragons!" 

"Right in all respects," Bilbo said, amused, though his suspicions were growing, and which then solidified as he recognised the female dwarf who was striding out from the main gate towards them, another in tow. It was Thorin and Dís, and she went straight up to Gunnar, clasping his wrist: he smiled at her adoringly, and Bilbo had to hide a grin. 

Thorin grimaced, probably out of some sort of latent brotherly horror at watching his sister engage in any sort of intimacy, and dragged Bilbo to the side. "Must you leave?" he asked in a low voice.

"You have Smaug here to help you," Bilbo said comfortingly. "I don't know anything at all about running a city."

"There are other things that you could do," Thorin scowled, stubbornly trying the same argument again. "I want you to stay."

"You'll have to learn how to rule here without me," Bilbo said firmly, stroking Thorin's arm, running his fingers over the intricate links of dwarven-forged chainmail. "You knew this when you chose me, Thorin."

Thorin shot him a desperately unhappy look that abruptly melted into politeness, and Bilbo didn't need to look around to see that Gandalf had ambled up to them. Grateful for the reprieve, Bilbo skulked back over to Myrtle, who sniffed, hugged him close with a wing, and sat back on her haunches, watching the firedrake get loaded up.

"We'll be carrying the Grey Wizard and some Elves," Dís said, having remained behind as her omega climbed back up onto the firedrake to supervise. "It was decided that your Shirefolk could do with some bow training, and as much as my grandfather had no real love for the Elves, my brother has finally recognised that their skill with the bow surpasses anything that we could teach."

Paladin was going to faint. A firedrake _and_ Elves? "Are you coming along too?"

"Naturally," Dís glowered briefly at him. "I'm acting as liaison in my brother's place. Why do you ask?"

"How did you meet Gunnar?" Myrtle asked hastily, with a sharp glance at Bilbo, and she ignored him when he blinked at her.

"As with most royal bondings," Dís said dryly, though her faint aggression eased, "It was an arrangement made before we were born. He belongs to one of the old noble houses in Ered Mithrin, one of those with a dragon and their name and nothing else. My grandfather bought Gíslaug - and therefore, Gíslaug's companion - with nearly a century's worth of financial aid and influence. Gunnar too, has a seat on the council, though his decisions are actually made by the Lord of Ered Mithrin."

"Not… particularly romantic," Bilbo said, trying to parse the matter-of-fact, sardonic way Dís had just spoken.

"Royal bondings are usually not far in the ways of romance. Though, nor are we dwarves usually taken as such, for the most part. Courtship is usually a practical and straightforward affair." Dís didn't bother looking over to Thorin. "Acquiring a firedrake was a diplomatic feat, and Gunnar has been pleasant enough."

"He's most fond of you," Myrtle said doubtfully, as Gunnar spotted them looking and waved happily at them from where he was perched behind the captain's saddle, checking on the clasps. 

Dís scowled at him and made a sharp series of gestures, and Gunnar laughed, turning away. "Well, of course," she said loftily. "He's my mate, after all. I pushed for the bonding ceremony to happen a century earlier than it was scheduled."

"For Thorin's sake?"

She stared at him keenly, and when Bilbo merely returned a gentle smile, Dís sighed. "Yes, well, for Thorin's sake, of course. Gunnar saw it differently. Still," she added, as though to herself, watching as Gunnar swung over to the saddlebags, to check their padding and contents with practiced ease, "As I said, he _has_ been pleasant enough." 

"I'm surprised that you didn't get married off when you were born," Bilbo told Thorin later, when Thorin managed to get him alone again, a distance up the slope and away from the bustling activity. 

"The House of Durin cultivates a great many alliances, many of which are ever poised to be sealed off with bondings," Thorin allowed, though he smiled faintly as he did so, "But as a rule, they are sealed off with the alphas in our line. For the omegas whom are poised to bond with Smaug, overtly political bondings like my sister's are not preferable."

"By your House?"

"By Smaug." Thorin corrected, then he shrugged. "Which, in reality, is about the same."

"So which dragon did your father's bonding acquire for Erebor?" Bilbo asked curiously, then bit on his lip when Thorin arched an eyebrow at him. "Um, I mean-"

"Dís' birth was very difficult, and we lost my mother," Thorin said quietly. "And so, her dragon bonded with her nephew, my cousin Dwalin, whom with his brother had followed her from the Iron Hills with their dragon. It was within their rights to return to the Iron Hills, but they chose to remain."

Oh. _Oh_. That explained why Aðalstein had offered to carry Thorin, perhaps, when the etcher had previously seemed to show no real interest in any dwarves other than Dwalin and his family. Thorin _was_ family, as the son of Aðalstein's companion, even if he was presumably spoken for by Smaug. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother."

"She was exactly like Dwalin, you may not have enjoyed her company," Thorin replied, though he smiled faintly, and they stood together in companionable, comfortable silence, until Gandalf started striding away towards the spur where his long-suffering eagle was waiting. It was a signal that they were about to depart, and Bilbo squeezed Thorin's hand tightly. 

"Come back whenever you can," Thorin replied fiercely. "Once a month, at the least."

"I'll try," Bilbo promised, and Thorin squeezed his hand before letting go. 

He could feel the dull ache of a stretching bond worsen as Myrtle lifted up in to the cloud cover, but he clutched a hand over his chest, breathed out, and tried not to look back.

XXIX.

They picked up half a dozen fully armed elves in Mirkwood, along with, somewhat to Bilbo's surprise, bags and bags of what turned out to be carefully wrapped bows, hobbit-sized and beautifully made. The leader of the tiny elf trainer congregation was female, with brilliant russet hair, and unlike Legolas, Thranduil and many of the other Mirkwood elves she was dressed simply, in a green robe and brown breeches and boots. Other than a bow and a quiver, she was visibly unarmed, and unlike the other elves, all of whom hesitated when Gíslaug curved her gigantic serpentine neck around to study them, she stepped boldly forward, sweeping all of them with a quick glance before inclining her head at Dís.

"I am known as Tauriel," Tauriel said, in flawless Westron. "I bring you greetings and welcome from the Greenwood, Lady Dís."

"My thanks, and greetings from Erebor," Dís replied, just as formally, openly curious. 

"We have gifts for the Shire. May we prevail upon Gíslaug to carry them?"

Instead of looking over to Gunnar, Dís looked straight up at the firedrake, who nodded ponderously. Like Smaug, Gíslaug clearly had no problems with Westron either. Tauriel said a snatch of Elvish to the others, and the Elves brought the packs up to Gíslaug's flanks and stepped back respectfully, allowing Gíslaug's crew to get them safely affixed to the harness. Seemingly losing interest in the congregation, Gíslaug went back to studying the large platform where they were perched.

To Myrtle's relief, Thranduil didn't ask for them this time, and though Gandalf had wandered off, the Elven caretakers assigned to the dragon platforms had firmly if politely informed Bilbo that the Greenwood would very much appreciate it if The Honored Guests did not go Wandering About Unsupervised. Which meant no attempted peeking in on the White Council, Bilbo supposed. Legolas shot Bilbo a sympathetic glance before he darted off on Siloratan's heels. 

The mountain pass was quiet, and they made better speed than before: firedrakes were faster than etchers. Bypassing Rivendell, Gíslaug headed straight for the Shire, the elves perched on her haunches, her crew swarming up and down her flanks, clearly taking the time to conduct a training exercise under Gunnar's command. Dís paid no attention to them, staying as high up along Gíslaug's neck as the harness allowed, hooked onto the harness, arms folded. 

There were rather more dwarves on board than Bilbo thought necessary, and half of the crew stayed with the elves, idling quietly. "They've got different uniforms," Myrtle told him, when Bilbo whispered his question to her. "They don't belong to Gíslaug." 

"Belong?"

"The Old Scale are very possessive about their crews," Myrtle said. "I'm fairly sure that they're Aðalstein's. Edda was telling me the other day that it was a bit of a waste that his crew were grounded, and they were getting restless anyway." 

After the stunt with Smaug, it seemed that the Dragonguard dragons had warmed up considerably to Myrtle, and she was involved in far more gossip than their previous visit, all of which had suited her so well that she hadn't even complained once about the stall. 

"We could have brought them over on that first instance," Bilbo noted doubtfully. "Rather than just Dwalin."

"I think that Smaug rather miscalculated how long Dwalin and Aðalstein were going to have to be in the Shire," Myrtle noted, then she blew out a puff of steam, irritated. "Or maybe he really did think that he could throw us into battle after just a month. It would be just like him." 

Bilbo grimaced. Myrtle had been openly hostile over the topic of Smaug - at least when she wasn't in his presence - and no matter what Bilbo could say or try, she wouldn't listen. Dragons did take threats to their companions very seriously, though, and Bilbo knew that Myrtle was serious when she said that she would never forgive Smaug over it. He internalised a sigh. Maybe something could be worked out with Thorin after everything.

Paladin was visibly shocked when Gíslaug landed carefully in the Bridgefields at a respectful distance from Aðalstein, rumbling out a greeting. After a moment, Aðalstein responded with a deeper rumble, and got up ponderously, heading over with a gait that shook the ground. Myrtle, Bilbo, Paladin and Scabious hastily retreated a safe distance as the etcher drew up alongside the firedrake, wary of his own spurs, then stretched out a wing, overlaying Gíslaug's, and pressed the length of it carefully against the firedrake's flank. 

Aðalstein's team made the crossing, leaping nimbly over deceptively narrow spurs of wing bone until they reached the etcher's heavier bulk, then took their positions over the harness as though they had never left it. One of the dwarves swung further up to the captain's saddle, to clasp Dwalin's arm in greeting, then Aðalstein stepped to the side, and ambled heavily back to where he had been curled. Bilbo wasn't entirely sure, but the etcher did seem happier.

Bilbo introduced Dís and Gunnar to Paladin, then he excused himself, pleading weariness, although he actually felt as though he was being stretched terribly thin, over a great distance. It was like losing a limb, knowing it was there and not there, and Bilbo wanted nothing more than a nice cup of tea and a lie down. Dís stared at him with obvious concern, but said nothing when Myrtle hustled him home.

"You always must do things the most difficult way, Bilbo Baggins," she told him, once she had helped him to fix a cup of tea and located a jar of biscuits. 

"I know."

"Oh," Myrtle poked her snout into the pantry, "Our stocks are low, and we must invite Dís and Gunnar over - and the others - for tea, I don't suppose the Gamgees might be blackberrying-" 

Closing his eyes, Bilbo let the dragonscent and his companion's soothing cadence wash over him, and the ache faded, just a little. He breathed in the chamomile tea's scent, and settled deeper into his chair. This he had to do.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War exercises in the Shire

XXX.

The first legitimate 'war exercise' came a week after their arrival, when Dori was finally satisfied that 'most' of the Shire dragons could execute group commands without any 'unnecessary confusion', meaning collisions. A great deal of the Shirefolk and their dragons had been visibly intimidated by Gíslaug's sheer size: for a supposedly 'young' firedrake she was already larger even than Aðalstein, and Bofur's cheerful 'Oh, they do get a wee bit larger than that!' hadn't helped matters.

Between Paladin and Gunnar, a plan had been worked out which, to Myrtle, sounded like it was just asking for alarming numbers of group injuries. However much you removed an arrowhead and wrapped the arrowtip in a wad of cloth dusted with chalk, shot from a longbow it could still, with sheer bad luck, take out someone's eye, in her opinion.

Despite her grumbling, Myrtle and Bilbo took up positions first in the air, hovering as they rechecked their team. Formed up mostly of bramblescales, thanks to the Baggins Clan's rather surprising decision when he had been away (to Bilbo anyway) to volunteer, at least their squad was calm and quiet, compared to Paladin's, all of which had Tooks chattering and shouting at each other and their riverslates. He could make out Sigrún at the far end of the lineup, Glóin hunched over the saddle.

Bilbo doubtfully inspected his bow and wadded arrows. A week's worth of practice meant that he was able to draw and fire an arrow without shooting himself in the foot, but that was about it: he had no chance of really even hitting the target. His squad was under strict instructions not to fire unless they had a clear shot: most of the 'damage' was meant to be done by their dragons. 

Myrtle hefted the cotton mop with its chalk dust soaked rags, and blew out another sigh, but Bilbo could sense her tense excitement. Most of the participating squads - meaning four of the best and 'most sensible', as Myrtle said - had already arrayed themselves in the air, and their group captains had already had a quick discussion on the ground. 

Bilbo's squad had been tasked with distracting Gíslaug. He still wasn't so sure what he felt about this, but bramblescales were the least likely of the steamers to panic in situations, so it did make logical sense. While they were doing this, Paladin would head in with the quick riverslates, followed by Prim, then Hamfast, all on directed passes with the aim of tapping out as many of Gíslaug's crew as they could without staying overlong, until enough space had been cleared for Sigrún's final 'attack'. 

"Paladin says to look out below," Myrtle murmured, and then whistled to their squad, as Gíslaug, with a heavy leap from the ground, started to climb for altitude with great sweeps of her wings, the dwarves and Elves on her back. "I still think it isn't fair that they get Elves," Myrtle whispered. 

"Hush! You know why." The dwarven teams were mostly built for defensive close combat, to shield their dragon from boarders and conduct mid air repairs or first aid; there were few archers on any crew. The undead dragons, on the other hand, had orcs and goblins which were uninterested in the welfare of their steed, being one that would feel no pain, and as such, carried many archers. Most of the steamer deaths from the skirmish over Dale had been from archery wounds. 

"I look silly in this," Myrtle grumbled. Her flanks, like all the dragons, had two sets of lightweight rounded shields strapped on, as makeshift armour, with an interlocking plate covering her ribs and another plate that ran over most of her belly. It had been what Erebor had been working on, it seemed. The 'armour' lacked the usual careful dwarven finesse and decoration, but it was sturdy enough. There had only been enough sets for five squads - more sets would come, according to Gunnar.

"If you look silly, I look worse," Bilbo whispered back. Since hobbits didn't have very much in the way of armour, at least not yet, for the training exercise they were wearing cotton overalls with red painted spots indicating the probable weak spots in the armour that they would someday hopefully be getting.

"At least yours isn't so frightfully heavy." 

"Well-" Bilbo began, then stopped talking as Gíslaug rose into position, gigantic against the morning sky. "Get ready!" 

Myrtle whistled at the bramblescales, and behind him, he could hear his niece Molly let out a very un-Baggins-like whoop of excitement, only to be quickly hushed by Harebell. In the distance, Gíslaug shook out her neck, rippling jagged spines in playful defiance, then she roared in a sound like the start of a thunderstorm.

Prim's mixed group of steamers visibly flinched, but the riverslates were already whistling back, mantling playfully in mock challenge, their riders laughing and jeering, and after a while Prim's group steadied up. Hamfast offered Bilbo a little wave at the far end of the lineup, and Bilbo took a deep breath. "Ready?"

"Ready," Myrtle murmured. "Oh dear! Whatever are we doing?" 

The bramblescale contingent went first, forming up a wedge of dragons that arrowed straight towards the firedrake and then - hopefully - broke off, with Sigrún and Hamfast's group climbing quickly up into the cloud cover, darting out of sight. Myrtle chirped - the signal to fan out - and the bramblescale squad spread out into a rough circle, all of them facing Gíslaug. 

Since this was a training exercise, Gíslaug didn't respond by breathing flame, instead turning her snout left and right, and to Bilbo's relief, under Myrtle's direction, the bramblescales followed almost instantly. With the test done, Gíslaug started to move, and that was when it got tricky. 

In a real battle, teams would aim to distract the undead dragons long enough for their crews to be disposed off, after which spiketail teams could break the undead dragons' wings. Bilbo wasn't entirely sure whether this was a viable strategy, but he supposed this was what the war exercise was aiming to find out. They chased after Gíslaug, keeping in her line of sight, easily keeping pace with the far slower firedrake despite the whip quick way Gíslaug could move her neck, and riding the backdrafts from her great wings turned out to be the only part of the exercise so far that was challenging.

A padded arrow whistled past, and Myrtle swallowed a yelp, even as from below, he could see a couple of bramblescales peeling off reluctantly, tapped out by the arrows, chalk dust forming white 'fatal' spots on their muzzles. Elves were frighteningly accurate. 

Thankfully, that was the last set of arrows headed towards them - Prim's and Paladin's teams had descended, in a flanking group, puffing and shouting, bedlam all at once. Alarmed despite herself, Gíslaug automatically turned to look, but was headed off quickly by the bramblescale team. Growling, she dipped her wings, losing altitude with a sharp dip, but they managed the dive as a group, Myrtle fluting instructions and Bilbo keeping an eye out, although Foxglove nearly barrelled into Violet. 

"She's going to turn left," Bilbo decided, studying the firedrake, and Myrtle whistled a command - this time, they moved exactly in sync with the firedrake, and there was another whoop of excitement from Molly. Despite himself, Bilbo was starting to grin. This was becoming rather more fun than he had thought.

Members from the boarding teams were dropping out, dusting chalk dust ruefully off themselves over the red marked parts of their overalls. Still, sheer numbers seemed to be holding out despite the expert aim of the Elves and the defensive tactics of the dwarves. One by one, the dwarves that were tapped out, drenched in chalk, made their way behind Gíslaug's back haunches, until it was just mostly the Elves and Gunnar left, driven back towards the firedrake's haunches, away from the wings.

A sharp ascent from Myrtle knocked Bilbo out of distraction, just in time to turn forward and watch, to his shock, a bubble of brilliantly scarlet flame, boiling up towards them, larger than a cloud. Dragonfire! But the firedrake wasn't _meant_ to…! 

Horrified and frozen, Bilbo didn't respond, but Myrtle snapped something, and blew out a jet of wet steam. In seconds, the other bramblescales had followed suit, and to Bilbo's palpable astonishment, it _worked_! He felt as though he was being boiled in his clothes, but the steam drenched out the flame, smothering it, until only the hazy shimmer of superheated air remained between them. A ragged cheer rose from the bramblescale riders, along with laughter and trills. 

Even a firedrake could manage a patently embarrassed expression, somehow - Gíslaug was rumbling at them, and he didn't need Myrtle's translation to know an apology when he heard it. Sigrún had landed squarely between Gíslaug's wings, spiked tail poised, ready to shatter wing bone joints, Hamfast's squad surrounding her. That was the signal for the end of the wargame. The hobbit squads - plus Sigrún - had _won_. 

"When Sigrún landed, Gíslaug got a bit of a shock," Myrtle said finally, sounding amused rather than annoyed as Bilbo had thought. "She forgot, and she's really sorry." 

"That's fine," Bilbo's heart did still feel like it was in his stomach, but he breathed out. "Valar! I couldn't even think! If you weren't paying attention-"

"That's what I'm here for," Myrtle interrupted tartly, though she churred, laughing, and around them the other bramblescales also trilled and clicked to each other. "That's what _we're_ here for."

All in all, a successful exercise, Bilbo decided, with only a few minor injuries, mostly bruises and one minor fracture from an accidental mid-air collision in Paladin's squad. Everyone was talking excitedly, in high spirits, and Bilbo was quite over his shock by the time Dís found them sitting under an apple tree. The other bramblescales and companions eyed her curiously but ambled off at Bilbo's nod, and Bilbo smiled politely. 

"It wasn't too bad, was it?"

"Was it?" Dís was scowling. "Gíslaug could have roasted all of you!"

"Oh, we had to face flame sooner or later," Myrtle said soothingly. "None of our team got hurt."

"It's not very common that the Old Scale are paired off to young dwarves because of things like this," Dís muttered. "Gunnar's father had a climbing accident."

"Things like what?" Bilbo asked, puzzled.

"The Old Scale can be headstrong, stubborn, or simply need careful management," Dís explained, with a touch of impatience. "That's why succession only flows on death. Young dwarves usually don't have the experience or the gravitas needed to command them."

"Dwalin seems to be doing fine," Bilbo noted doubtfully, even as Myrtle sniffed.

"Oh yes, and had you not stood firm, you'll have been bonded to him, and you'll both - and little Ori - have been thoroughly unhappy, eh?" 

"Well this can't be helped," Myrtle said soothingly, with a quick glance at Bilbo, "Nobody got hurt, and _I_ probably wouldn't have reacted well if someone had landed on my back, either. Gíslaug's already apologised." 

Dís sighed, folding her arms. "We'll just have to be more careful. I don't want to return to Erebor with fewer numbers than expected because half of your people are singed. But it worked! Mahal, it worked." Dís smiled, tight and faint. "I hadn't dared hope."

XXXI.

Most of the rest of the able-bodied Shire dragons volunteered the next day, including, to Myrtle's irritation, Lobelia and Knapweed. The morning was spent organising the newcomers into squads, while Ósorgr, Stígr and Ulrika took the more experienced steamers up over Hobbiton to practice riderless manoeuvres - being catching sandbags in mid air.

Bilbo and the other companions were taken to the Greenfields by the Elves to practice archery, a surprisingly painful and strenuous affair. His fingers were smarting by the time it was lunch, and Bilbo was tired, sweating and wishing that he was curled up at home with a book as he had a bowl of potato and leek soup, courtesy of the so-called 'Old Timer' supply train organised by the Gaffer. The Shirefolk who were too young or too old to participate had arrived anyway, either to support their families or, more often, to provide food for the increasingly large trestle tables. Food and spectacle did, after all, go together swimmingly in the Shire. 

Ósorgr, Bofur told Bilbo cheerfully, as the dwarf settled down to his second helping of Ellie's famous pumpkin soup, was growing a little spoiled trying all the pies and whatnot that the Shire dragons tended to have. 

"And I suppose Stígr and Ulrika aren't?" Bilbo asked, amused. The other dwarven dragons had declined, opting for their usual fare of freshly killed raw meat, but the dwarven steamers - partly out of curiosity, and partly out of politeness - had opted to try new culinary experiences.

"Those two are just eating. My wee dragon is stuffing 'is face," Bofur said mournfully. "He'll be too heavy to fly by the time we're done here, and no mistake. Not to mention, we're going to have to go home sooner or later."

"It could be later," Bilbo suggested, without thinking. "The Shire doesn't have a courier system. You could always fix one up here, and Ósorgr's made a lot of friends."

"Only because they've never seen a dragon as wee as he is before," Bofur retorted, though he pulled absently at his moustache, then ended up twiddling with his furry cap. "Aye, I s'pose we could." Bofur cheered up a little at the thought. "He'll have a grand time here. Although," he added, and at this he deflated, "I've got me responsibilities, I do."

"I could talk to Thorin."

"No, don't you do that," Bofur said quickly. "Maybe you've got the King's ear - and more besides - but this isn't something I'll want to be bothering him with."

"I could ask the Princess," Bilbo said, though he grinned as he said this.

"Aye, and have her come by and chew me out for wasting her time," Bofur shuddered. "No thank ye. The word in Erebor was that she should'a been born a firedrake before she was born a dwarf. She's got her brother's temper and none o' his restraint."

"Her omega seems happy enough." 

"Him?" Bofur snorted, and ate a large spoonful of soup. "Y'know how there are some omegas whose lives revolve around their alphas? That's him."

The pity in Bofur's tone silenced Bilbo's next comment, and he glanced over at Myrtle, who shrugged, though she flicked her tail unconsciously a little against the pebbles. "I wouldn't want that," Bilbo said finally, when it seemed as though Bofur was waiting for a comment.

"You've got no choice," Bofur smirked at him. "You're sharin' yours with Smaug himself."

Myrtle grumbled under her breath, looking over to where Gunnar was following Dís about. Although she had a hand pressed in the crook of his elbow, she was clearly not paying him the least attention - instead, she was discussing something with Paladin and Mayor Shand. 

"Gíslaug doesn't seem to mind," Myrtle said doubtfully. 

"Gíslaug knows a good thing when she sees it," Bofur shrugged. "She's got better nesting status in Erebor than she did in Ered Mithrin, since her companion's the Princess-consort. For a firedrake, she's young. If she can get with egg, Erebor won't let her return to Ered Mithrin, which is exactly how she wants it, I hear."

"This is too complicated," Bilbo rubbed at his eyes. "Really, Bofur."

"Either way, it don't matter to you, since you're not on the council," Bofur pointed out. "All you have to worry about is staying alive during this next wee bit."

"This next 'wee' bit being the war?"

"Aye, small thing that." Bofur winked. "Now I've got t'go, before my dragon eats so much of your Shire's bounty that he explodes."

The days grew busy, perhaps predictably so, and rather to Bilbo's dismay, arbitrarily heading off to visit Thorin proved to be difficult. Now that the newcomers were here, whichever squads weren't training with Dori would be practicing archery, or training boarding tactics with the Older Scale dragons. Even Glóin stopped complaining about being apart from his alpha, and settled for the weekly courier runs from Erebor.

Letters did help - Bilbo learned that Smaug was recovering steadily, that he would fly again soon, that Dale was almost rebuilt, that the White Council, for reasons known only to themselves, had stayed quiet in the Greenwood, and finally, an always studied reminder that Thorin _had_ asked him to visit monthly, which meant _monthly_ , not never, had he forgotten? 

Bilbo replied wryly in _his_ letters that training was going very well - no one had broken anything in mid air collisions for almost a month and Dori was quite beside himself with smugness, archery that morning had almost gone all the way without anyone accidentally shooting something that they weren't meant to, though that was really more Paladin's fault than Ellie's, and quite possibly the Shirefolk would graduate from being 'terribly unprepared' to just 'merely embarrassing' by the time Yuletide rolled by. Yes he did remember the monthly request, but poor Glóin was also stuck in the Shire, and taking a break from training would put his squad behind. 

That last was difficult to write, and he had crossed out many drafts by the time Myrtle observed, "We could always head down during Yuletide." 

"It's a two day journey," Bilbo pointed out, though he could feel himself wavering.

"It's a week long holiday," Myrtle flicked her tail against the rug. "And you've been going rather pale and quiet during the mornings." 

"Well-"

"Besides, I was speaking to Ulrika, and she said that the dwarves are probably planning on heading home, as well. It's Durin's Day for them, a big holiday. They've got family back in Erebor too."

"Oh." Bilbo mulled this over. "But if they leave, then the Shire-"

"I think we're rather more prepared than we were the last time," Myrtle noted, though she looked doubtful. "I don't know. Maybe Aðalstein will stay. He's apparently rather indifferent." 

"That means Dwalin will stay, and Balin's over in Erebor," Bilbo pointed out. "Blast. I suppose it's really up to them. Oh dear! It _is_ some time away. We'll see how everyone is doing at that point." 

He gave the letter to the courier in the morning, with its amended ending about Yuletide, and sighed, when the courier took off, climbing into the sky. "Funny thing, that," Bofur said, from behind him, "That would'a once been me." 

"I did think that Bifur and yourself were here as couriers," Bilbo pointed out mildly.

"Aye, well, we've had some basic steamer training - all the steamers do, regardless of whether they're Dragonguard or not," Bofur shrugged, "I guess Dori allocated us temporarily to lead a squad and forgot about that wee detail of us only being couriers." Both Bofur and Bifur led squads now, despite Bifur only really being able to communicate via draconic or the dwarven language. 

"So you're in the Dragonguard now, then," Myrtle noted, and behind Bofur, Ósorgr made a churring sound, then a snort. "Congratulations?"

"I'll best be giving meself some airs, then," Bofur grinned, then hastily looked around in case Dori was listening in. "Ah. That's not what we want." 

"You'll prefer to stay couriers, then?"

This time, it was Ósorgr who replied, trilling and whistling, until Myrtle translated, "'It's where our friends are.'" 

"You've lost all the poetry," Bofur eyed Myrtle, if with amusement. "All the flowery bits."

"I summarised," Myrtle retorted loftily, and fell to bickering with Bofur, even as Ósorgr let out a whistle and shot Bilbo a surprisingly long-suffering glance. Bilbo offered him a smile in return, leaning against Myrtle, thinking over the little steamer's words. 

Staying where his friends were. He had taken this for granted when he had left Erebor, but now, months after, the ache hadn't lessened. It was all very well telling Thorin that he was going to stay in the Shire even after the bonding, but in practice, it felt as though he was restless, as though he had been pried open, left sundered. He wondered how Glóin was doing, and felt a little guilty for never asking, even though Glóin usually kept to the dwarves and said little to the Shirefolk.

Still, to live in Erebor, away from Bag End and all of his family and friends! It would be like exile, especially for poor Myrtle. Bilbo bit down on a sigh, then shook himself mentally. It was an issue to think about after the war, not now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Timeskip! Hopefully I can wrap up this monster soon...


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is a terrible beast, consuming everything in its path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for those who aren't used to Temeraire-esque stories: People and dragons tend to die in droves. No Major Character Death though, because squick. More like canon character deaths.

XXXII.

The Shire's Host was called to Erebor in late spring, a thousand and a hundred strong, and as much as Bilbo still had his reservations, he had to admit that they did cut a most resplendent sight in their gleaming ranks of mottled dragonscale, fanned out in their squads and crossing the mountains.

The Greenwood could not fit their host - the dragons had to stop over in the valleys of Rivendell, and then make the mountain crossing to Erebor all in one leg. Poor Myrtle was exhausted by the time they finally had sight of the Lonely Mountain, and almost asleep on her wings by the time it was their squad's turn to land. She did, however, perk up when she recognised the figure in the heavy furs waiting impatiently at the pens.

"Thorin!" Myrtle greeted him delightedly, then made a pleased whistle when Bilbo stumbled to dismount, grinning broadly, and all but fell into a bear hug. Thorin crushed him close so tightly that he almost could not breathe, his eyes stinging as he nuzzled the warm stretch of Thorin's neck, breathing deep. 

"I _have_ missed you," Bilbo whispered, or tried to - Thorin had tugged up his chin for a kiss, public enough that he could hear his Tookish cousins whoop and catcall from their squads. " _Thorin_ , let me - Myrtle's saddle-" 

Reluctantly, Thorin drew back, though he kept an arm around Bilbo's back as they followed Myrtle into the pens. The stalls had been divided up in an attempt to hold as many steamers as possible, but Myrtle said nothing about the now cramped space, yawning as Bilbo and Thorin hurried to unbuckle her saddle and prop it on the racks. 

"It _is_ very good to see you," Myrtle told Thorin sleepily, "And I don't wish to be rude, but-"

"Rest. We'll speak tomorrow, you must be tired from your trip," Thorin agreed, and she nodded with relief. Bilbo, too, was yawning on the way up from the pens, barely noticing the route. 

"Is Gandalf here yet?"

"Aye, for a day he has."

"He's told you his plan?"

Thorin's jaw set, and he glanced away. "That he has."

"You don't like it?" Bilbo frowned up at Thorin despite his weariness and saddle aches.

"It asks too much of Erebor. Of the _Shire_."

"You've asked us to come to war, Thorin," Bilbo said gently, stroking Thorin's arm, then pressing his knuckles carefully to his cheek. "And here we are. It would have taken years to train us up to anything remotely like the standard of the Dragonguard, you know this." 

"There will be… sacrifices," Thorin said delicately, as they descended down a narrow stair, heading towards the distant golden lights of the palace. 

"We understood that when we volunteered."

"Somehow, I never included you in that concept," Thorin added curtly, though he wouldn't look at Bilbo, and finally, Bilbo shook his head slowly, and patted Thorin's wrist. 

" _You_ would be going into battle, Thorin. Where else would I be?" 

There was little else that truly needed to be said, together on the cusp of all things, and Thorin's touch was urgent and rough when they reached his bed, his mouth hot, demanding, desperate.

The next two days mired Erebor in a state of nervous tension. Bilbo and Myrtle were soon run ragged, trying to solve petty disputes, smooth feathers, calm frayed nerves and restrain the Tooks and their dragons from barging into Erebor to 'explore'. Paladin was in the war council now, not Bilbo, and somewhat to his wry amusement, Bilbo felt that he did rather miss it. Politics would have been preferable to handling a gaggle of Sackville-Bagginses, all loudly trying to make their grievances heard. 

"At this rate it'll be a relief if the Orcs attack," Myrtle muttered over lunch.

"You don't mean that," Bilbo shivered, remembering the Shire, how it had burned, and Myrtle bumped his thigh with the flat of her tail.

"No, no of course not," she noted, subdued. They were sitting under the apple tree, watching the sky. It was thick with dragons and the rumbling thunder of their massed wings. It was, Bilbo had to admit, a glorious sight, and he hoped - Valar, he hoped - that it would be enough.

"A lot of us are going to die, aren't we?" Myrtle whispered unhappily, following his gaze, and he had no answer for a moment, then he leaned his cheek against her flank, breathing in the warm dragonscent.

"Everyone up there knows that. And yet they came." 

"The charge of the Shire brigade," Myrtle murmured, and shook her head slowly. "Oh, Bilbo! Whatever has the world come to?"

XXXIII.

On the third day, a black cloud boiled out from the distant green expanse beyond the valley, like a volcano spitting ash up into the blue sky, and it wasn't until Bilbo recognised the dark specks, far, far too large to be birds, when he realized the alarm was sounding.

"So soon! So soon!" Myrtle fussed, as Bilbo strapped on their gear with the ease of practice forced from months of training.

"The Necromancer wouldn't wait for us to get settled in," Bilbo replied, which was exactly what Gandalf had predicted. "Three days is already good time." 

Bilbo could sense fear as he hurried out of the pens with Myrtle, but at least there didn't seem to be any panic. Locating his squad, Bilbo mounted and waited for the signal to fly. Orderly groups of steamers were already rising into the air, coordinated by Dori and Ulrika, and soon they were all aloft, near cloud cover. 

"How are you?" Myrtle whispered, watching the horizon, the black cloud that was gathering height and breadth, oh, Valar!

"I'm beginning to wish that I hadn't eaten breakfast this morning," Bilbo whispered back, stroking her neck comfortingly. "Look at the numbers, Myrtle!"

"Hush!" Myrtle replied fiercely. "We're ready for them."

They weren't in the least, but Myrtle's words sped through their squad, and he could sense the anxiety lessening somewhat - young Molly even let out another of her whoops, as below, the Dragonguard rose up into the sky, with the huge complements of etchers, and behind them, rising from the mountains, the great firedrakes of Erebor. 

Smaug, at the heart of the gigantic drakes, rose up as high as his huge wings could take him, and breathed out a gigantic lance of flame, as the firedrakes and etchers _roared_. Bilbo felt the sound shake him to his bones, and despite himself, he shouted something, wordless and primal in return, and found that he wasn't the only one - the steamers were screeching and snarling, in a wave of sound from a thousand throats, a cacophony as loud as the Old Scale. 

He could see the dwarven teams swarming over their dragons, and if he squinted, he could see Thorin, perched in the captain's saddle on Smaug's back, and his heart clenched with pride and fear both.

The Necromancer hadn't bothered raising any undead dragons smaller than a spiketail, but Valar, the number of spiketails! The brittle ranks of spiked bone dragons arrowed straight for the steamer ranks where they could do the most damage, snarling, orcs on their backs, terrifyingly quick, and Bilbo could feel Myrtle tensing-

"Stay firm!" he commanded, and she took in a breath, whistling, "Wait for Dori!" 

It seemed like eternity, watching the spiketails wing closer and closer yet, and then abruptly he heard the shrill staccato cry from Ulrika, and that was their sign - Myrtle climbed steeply up, following the nose of a wedge that scrambled for cloud cover, even as other squads dove left and right, scattering. Before they hit the clouds, Bilbo saw the first set of flour bombs hit their targets. The undead spiketails hovered, blinded and dusted snow white, their riders confused, then the orcs screamed as the first Brandybuck wine bottles with their burning rags smashed against a spiketail. 

The creature exploded into a fireball of heat that Bilbo could feel even as they burst out over the clouds, streaming mist behind them, and Myrtle shrilled with the other bramblescales as other explosions followed in quick succession. 

"Hush! Hush!" Bilbo whispered quickly, and at a chirp, the others in his squad quieted. Other squads had burst up into cover, keeping to the thicker patches, waiting. The bigger dragons would be in range soon, waiting to engage, and-

With a ragged snarl, a spiketail burst out of the clouds before them, the orc on its back grunting and pointing at them, and it charged, tail poised to strike. 

"Scatter!" Bilbo cried, but he didn't have to - the bramblescales had darted away, but Valar, oh Valar, Harebell was a fraction of a second too slow - the bramblescale _shrieked_ as the spiketail smashed into her, spurs and spikes punching through strapped on shields and mail instantly, sinking full into her ribs, its jaws locked tight on Harebell's neck.

"Molly, no!" Myrtle whirled, but Molly had taken one look at her dying companion and grabbed the flour bombs from her saddle. The first bomb hit the orc full in the face, the rest splashed over the snapping spiketail, and then, her expression of terrible resolve was lit up briefly as she struck a match. 

The fireball fell through the clouds, at its heart a charred twist of figures still locked together in combat, and then the wind scudded cloud over the patch it had torn open and Bilbo could see it no further. 

"Oh… oh…" Myrtle stared, hesitating, stunned by the ferocity of the attack, and forcing himself to shake out of it, Bilbo patted her flank sharply. 

"Later! There'll be later! It's almost our turn to dive. Look there!" 

Myrtle took a few gasping breaths, and at her summoning whistle the other bramblescales flew over and back into formation, though the look of stunned horror remained. Below, the first undead firedrake had passed the mark - the eastern spur - and taking in a deep breath, Bilbo patted Myrtle's neck, and offered a silent, desperate prayer to the Valar. 

Down they dove, arrowing out of the clouds as the undead drake winged its way towards the Dragonguard, and the first set of flour bombs splashed down over the firedrake's snout. The drake whipped its head around, hissing, the cold blue flame of unholy magic in its eyes not touching the flour, but at its first lance of flame the cloud of flour dust exploded. 

Ignoring the explosion as they had been trained, Myrtle blew out a lance of steam in response, followed by the rest of their squad, and the dragonfire was extinguished. As Dori had thought, the bone of a firedrake was far sturdier than a spiketail, and the undead creatures felt no pain. All the fireball did was sluice off the remaining ragged skeins of skin and rotten flesh, revealing the pale ivory of the bone beneath. 

The undead firedrake breathed out another gout of flame, and this time, the bramblescale squad responded more quickly, the torrent of steam stopping the fire before it got within metres of them. Screams and more explosions from the firedrake's back indicated that Hamfast's squad had made their pass, but Bilbo dared not look, tossing another bag of flour instead as the firedrake tried to turn its snout. 

It whipped its head around to face them, screaming in thwarted rage, and as they'd hoped, the creature was little more than a puppet - instead of keeping its flame to itself, as a live firedrake would at this point, it breathed flame again, creating another violent explosion that snapped its head back. Taking advantage of the distraction, a pair of Dragonguard spiketails dropped out of cloud cover, digging their claws into the ragged, protruding arcs of ribs, and with two, three quick strikes of their deadly tails, they pulverized the joints of the firedrake's wings, shearing through, and shot back up into the sky again. 

The firedrake screamed as it fell, breathing out great gouts of flame that were met head on by Bilbo's squad until they were sure that the spiketails were clear - then they too rose up hastily for cloud cover. Below, the puppeted creature fell with awful inevitably, heaving flame all the way until it shattered against the foot of the mountains and was still.

"At least this foul magic can't hold the dragons together when their wings are broken," Myrtle observed breathlessly, shuddering as they pulled up out of sight. 

"There's a limit to it, thank Valar. Did you see the dragons? None of them are merely bone. They're held together." By rotting flesh, for some, and by steel and iron bands, bolted and jointed, in others. Bilbo clenched his hands tight against the pommel of the saddle. Maybe they could get away with this after all!

This cheerful thought lasted barely any time at all. Their squad was battling another firedrake when an etcher ploughed past, spitting acid at the squad that darted down to harass it. They sped away quickly, but instead of turning to snap at them, the etcher flew on as though they weren't there. Surprised, the squad circled, intent on cutting off the etcher, only to scatter in disarray as the surviving orcish crew on the etcher let loose a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts. 

"No," Bilbo whispered, watching in horror as steamers dropped, wailing, with their riders, some still desperately trying to fly, others falling, silent. The orcish bands were recovering, scrambling to avoid flour missiles and targeting the steamer teams; they were being pushed back, inexorably, slowly at first, then in greater and greater numbers, until the first undead etcher met the main Dragonguard line. 

The remaining steamer teams joined support, and Bilbo's squad lined itself up with Dori's, hovering over Smaug - below, Thorin glanced up, his face briefly tense with relief before waving at him and looking back towards the battle. Spiketails and the Hobbit steamer squads had taken out all of the enemy spiketails and some of the firedrakes, but there were still far too many remaining, more than the Ereborean ranks. Still, they were met head on. 

In his peripheral vision, Bilbo could see Aðalstein grappling with an undead firedrake, forcing it to lose altitude, searing its back with acid. Screaming, the firedrake was trying to breathe flame, but Aðalstein had his gigantic jaw clenched tight under the creature's neck, his escort squads of Shire dragons and Dragonguard keeping pace and a wary eye out. Distantly, he could see Dwalin and his team brace for impact, as Aðalstein landed heavily against the mountainside, crushing his opponent. 

And then it was too busy for distractions. Smaug breathed out a jet of flame that engulfed a smaller firedake, melting the iron and steel bolts that held together its wings, letting out a roar as it dropped, Bilbo's team and the Dragonguard diving with it to prevent its dying flames from reaching Smaug. 

All the Dragonguard firedrakes had climbed as high as they could in an attempt to avoid etcher attacks, and even as Smaug seared the crew of an approaching etcher, clearing its back for a spiketail team to shatter its wing joints, Bilbo could see another etcher smash headlong into a Dragonguard firedrake, their crews locked in fatal combat all the way down to the stone. Valar, the blood! 

He lost track of how many times they dived, how many close calls, but then, unbelievably, they were turning the tide. The ferocity of the Dragonguard's defence was driving back the invaders, pushing them inexorably back, further and further until the tide was stemmed, until the undead horrors were in rout! A cheer went up among the survivors as they pushed forward, driving the creatures back, past Dale, almost to the mouth of the valley-

And then there was the sound of an awful, shattering bellow, like a scream of pain and rage all at once, pitched far higher than what the Old Scale could make, yet loud enough for Bilbo to clap his hands over his ears. From the Dol Guldur an impossibly, monstrously _huge_ dragon was clawing up into the air, larger by far than Smaug, oh Valar! Its vast wings were oily black shrouds, and its scales gleamed in the sun - Bilbo used his eyepiece for a closer look, and had to swallow quickly to hold in his bile. Orcish handiwork had roughly stitched a patchwork of dragonhide and steel together into a horrific hide, binding it over bone and support struts.

Unlike the bones of the creatures they had already fought, which were bleached and pitted with age, this one had bones that were unnaturally smooth, as though stretched and thickened beyond what it should be. It had the sturdy frame of an etcher, and the serpentine head of a firedrake, and a gigantic, spiked tail - a patchwork monster, straight out of nightmare. 

There was someone - or something on its back, Bilbo saw, as he focused the eyepiece, then he shivered and shut it down quickly. Whatever it was, it was Man sized, armed in the angular overlapping breastplates of the Orc, with a helm that looked as though it had been cast by a blacksmith insane with anger and fear. There had been no face under the helm, only an inky, dark shape, with an indentation, like a screaming mouth pressed hard against cloth. 

"Oh, Valar!" Myrtle whispered. "What do you see?"

"Something impossible," Bilbo replied, but he stroked her neck as he shuddered again. "Something terrible." 

As the monster drew level in the sky, and started to fly towards them, Smaug seemed to recover first from the collective shock and terror that had gripped the Dragonguard, and he _roared_ , louder than ever, and breathed out another defiant jet of flame. The other firedrakes also followed suit, and Bilbo could see their ranks rallying, forming up - he could see Bofur and Bifur, heading squads of their own, of their courier friends - Bofur spotted him, and offered a little wave. Erebor had put everything into this gamble. 

As the foul host of the Necromancer passed the Greenwood, silver and black lightning darted out at it from the trees. Blinking, Bilbo used his eyepiece, and saw the flash of light off the scales of a supple Elven dragon, as it struck and struck again. So slender a thing did not seem as though it could inflict much damage, when Bilbo had last seen them on the ground, large as they were, but whatever they were doing, quicker than the eye could see, was working. 

They chipped away at the outer ranks of the monsters, felling the occasional firedrake and etcher, darting away from acid and flame, then striking again, always too quick for their foes, while on their backs Elves shot arrows at the Orcish crew, made impossible jumps from the backs of their companions to the enemy, then more insane leaps off to wholly different dragons, seemingly beautifully choreographed. 

But there were too few, and soon, through sheer numbers, the Necromancer's horde began to push forward. The Elven dragons could not avoid damage altogether, and those that were caught by claws or acid dropped out of the sky instantly, twisting and shrilling, their crew leaping off quickly onto another darting dragon. Bilbo watched one such exchange with dull horror, only to gasp as the gigantic dragon abruptly descended with a fold of its wings, breathing out a massive cloud of blue flame that incinerated both the falling dragon as well as the one that had darted down to save its crew. 

The Elven dragons pulled back when the horde reached the outskirts of the valley, darting away to join the Dragonguard ranks. They had done as much damage as they could. Siloratan and Andúnë had drawn level near Smaug: Bilbo waved to Legolas, even as Lord Elrond made a fluid leap from the back of Andúnë to Smaug's back, making his deft way up to Smaug's shoulders to consult quietly with Thorin before waiting until Andúnë had descended below Smaug to leap off. 

Then the Necromancer's ranks passed Dale - empty of its citizens, its women and children and elderly sheltering in Erebor, its men joining up with the rest of the White Council in the Greenwood. Smaug offered a final, defiant roar, echoed by the rest of the Dragonguard, and they advanced, ranks upon ranks of dragons, in a desperate charge that was beyond what the world would ever have seen. 

With a certain fatalistic inexorability, Bilbo noted that Smaug was heading straight for the patchwork beast, Siloratan and Andúnë with him, and he took in a breath, straightening up. Smaug's guard was being bolstered as he watched, with the other Shire dragon squads forming up as dragons rumbled and whistled.

"We're going to focus on that thing," Myrtle translated, unnecessarily, as Bilbo waved at a nervous looking Paladin and a determined Hamfast. "Oh, Bilbo! I don't see Prim and Drogo anywhere! Whatever are we going to tell little Frodo?"

"Hush," Bilbo looked around once more, searching the ranks of the Shire dragons, then he clenched his hands. "Focus, Myrtle. Maybe they're just injured." He could hear the dull tone of his words, and looking at the shattered expressions on Paladin's and Esme's faces, he could guess what had happened. He had grown up with them. He had-

"Now!" Myrtle swooped up, following Paladin's lead, and as the giant ball of flame ballooned up towards them, the Shire dragons responded with steam. An arrow hail from the Necromancer's back punched holes through their ranks, but they followed the dragon grimly, breathing out another wall of steam at the next gout of flame-

And then Smaug was in range, with a lance of flame that _should_ have cauterised the monster's back - but which slammed up against an invisible wall, gouting off in a fan of flame. Incredulous, Smaug swept up to a greater height, and breathed flame again. Again, there was a wall, and a third hail of arrows spun out, picking off more steamers. Gaps were appearing in their ranks, and Bilbo threw the last of his flour bombs, knowing that it was pointless. The others followed him, and flour coated the monster's snout before bursting in a violent explosion that actually managed to snap the creature's head to a side.

And then Gíslaug was there, streaming in out of the sky, landing on the monster's back, roaring, snapping and batting at the Orcs, tearing at its huge wings. Whatever the shield had been, it didn't repel a physical attack, and as Bilbo watched in horror, Gíslaug's crew jumped from their dragon, smashing axes against their shields, charging the Orc ranks. The Necromancer had drawn a black claymore nearly as long as he was tall, and with a great swing, sundered the first dwarf that tried to reach him with a single powerful cleave. 

"Look!" Myrtle hissed. At the very furthest edges of the battle, undead dragons were abruptly dropping from the sky, as though their puppet strings had been suddenly cut. The great dragon's next gout of flame was manageable, deflected easily, but on its back, the Necromancer seemed to grow faster, driving Gíslaug's crew back. He could see Gunnar, ducking and weaving, grimacing whenever he parried a blow with his axe, then there was a shout as a blow smashed his shield, cleaving into his arm. Gíslaug _snarled_ , reaching forward, and the next strike bit into the firedrake's claw instead, as she hauled her companion away, passing Gunnar up to her back. As she breathed out another gout of flame, trying to buy enough time to let the rest of her crew reach her and climb, the Necromancer threw his claymore-

A firedrake's anguished scream was a terrible thing. Bilbo briefly saw the claymore, sunk hilt first in Gíslaug's neck, and then the firedrake was scrabbling wildly at the giant dragon as she fell, wings wheeling awkwardly. Another firedrake dove for her, but the Elven dragons were faster - not that Bilbo could see what they could do, with their smaller bulk - but then a thunderous bellow snapped his attention back to the giant dragon. Aðalstein had landed heavily on its haunches, sweeping aside orcs and goblins with great, contemptuous swipes, his heavily armoured hide turning aside arrows and crossbolts easily. Dwalin and his crew did not dismount, instead concentrating on repelling attempted boarders, as the etcher bulled his way through the Orcs. 

Smaug burned another undead drake angling to come to its master's rescue, wheeling in the sky, but just as Aðalstein was nearly at the Necromancer, an undead etcher dove past, ignoring Smaug's flame, using momentum to collide heavily with Aðalstein, knocking the etcher off his perch. Bilbo could see Aðalstein snapping and shaking off the creature, spiketails swooping down to help break its grip, and - thank Valar - awkwardly recovered from free fall, if far too close to the ground. 

The next dragon to try to land on the monster, to Bilbo's horror, was Smaug himself. Aðalstein had cleared most of the Orc crew, and Smaug's snapping jaws swept off the rest. He bit and struck at the Necromancer, only to meet thin air - the Necromancer had shot up into the sky, in an oily flow of black smoke, streaking away towards Dol Guldur. Spiketails and steamers dove to block his way, but the Necromancer was faster, and soon, he was gone. 

More and more undead beasts began to fall, the magic animating them dissipating, but the giant beast remained, snapping, trying to turn around to get a grip on Smaug, ignoring the steamers that dove in front of its snout and around it. Smaug darted forward, abruptly, digging claws deeply into the monster's back, his own jaws closing shut as high on the creature's neck as he could go, just as spiketails landed on the creature's wing joints, smashing at them.

Screaming, the monster rolled, briefly dislodging one of the spiketail teams, twisting in Smaug's grasp until it had a massive claw free, rending it down Smaug's flank. Despite the damage, Smaug held on until the spiketails had completed their work, but then the monster changed tactics, grimly holding on to a twisting Smaug as he fell. 

Smaug's crew desperately attacked the grasping claws with sledgehammers, the bone brittle enough now that the Necromancer's magic was fading to shatter, and Smaug soon managed to tear free, though with one last swipe of its claws the monster ripped a section of Smaug's harness, the dwarves anchored to it falling, and to Bilbo's horror, he recognised Thorin-

Myrtle dove, wind tearing at Bilbo's skin and hair from the speed. Ósorgr was faster, followed closely by Scabious - they grabbed one end each of the torn harness, desperately trying to gain height. Then Myrtle had dug all of her claws into the rope, with Dandelion beside her, Ulrika and Yarrow on the other side, until steadily, impossibly, they had lift.

Bilbo blew out a shaky sigh of relief, peering down, unable to hope. Thorin had his arm curled tight in the rope, his other still holding the belt of one of his crew in a death grip. He let go slowly as the other dwarf hastily locked himself on the harness, and smiled wanly up at Bilbo.

"Good save," he said, and then whistled to the steamers. They moved obligingly upwards, towards where Smaug was descending as quickly as the great firedrake could, his flanks still streaming blood despite his remaining crew's attempts to stem the wounds with what they had. Carefully, the steamers drew level enough for Thorin and the others to climb back onto Smaug's back, and Smaug wearily glanced back over and up. Gouts of flame and acid marked the remaining pockets of battle, but just as Smaug prepared to return to the fray, there was a blindingly bright explosion, far away in the direction of Mirkwood, and a shockwave that billowed outwards, knocking the closest spiketails and steamers spinning and flocking to shelter behind the Old Scale. 

The remaining constructs dropped, corpses again, and from the ranks of the dragons above came a wild and ragged cheer, as Smaug lifted his muzzle to the open sky and let out a final burst of triumphant dragonfire.


	19. Chapter 19

epilogue.

Bilbo descended the wide stairwell, mentally cursing the dwarven tendency to build overly complicated tunnels _and_ dig far deeper than they really did have to, and then sighed and wished that he hadn't dressed up so much for the occasion. Waistcoats and Brandywine cotton jackets didn't work well for comfort so close to the forges, and Bilbo was sweating by the time he was finally directed into the great caverns where the firedrakes resided.

Smaug had his own natural cave, and the firedrake glanced at him as Thorin looked up, then he snorted as Bilbo hurried over the rocky ground. "Sorry I'm late," Bilbo offered, and let out a squeak as Thorin pulled him over for a kiss. 

"I presume that you have an appropriate excuse," Smaug rumbled, though there wasn't malice in his tone as the dragon resettled himself, clearly impatient. On his flanks, the deep wounds from the Necromancer War were already turning a light scarred white.

"I went to look at Gíslaug's egg," Bilbo admitted, and when it was Thorin's turn to snort, added dryly, "Well, I haven't seen an egg so large before. Why, it's bigger than Myrtle!"

"Many things are bigger than a little steamer," Smaug retorted, though there was a little wry humour in his tone. Now that Myrtle too had the run of Erebor, she had used it to visit Gíslaug, and also, rather to Bilbo's surprise, to check in on Smaug when he had been recovering. A week wouldn't pass without a loud squabble about something or other, and even Thorin seemed to be growing used to it.

"She'll be strong enough to fly again soon as well," Thorin added. "Lord Elrond has removed the stitches on that wound."

"It wasn't a good time to get with egg," Bilbo said, with a meaningful glance at Smaug, who pointedly ignored him. 

"Where _is_ Myrtle?" Thorin asked curiously.

"With little Frodo, hopefully keeping him out of trouble." It was a full-time job by itself: hobbitlings had stores of energy, and Frodo's Brandybuck blood showed itself at the worst of times. Bilbo's mood deflated a little at the reminder of the orphan child whom he had decided to adopt on the spur of the moment. Bag End was still in disarray, despite Myrtle packing up as much as they could before taking the trip to Erebor. 

"Very much like his uncle then," Thorin noted, amused, and Bilbo arched an eyebrow at him.

"Just for that, I think that your new nephew or niece is going to be extra difficult to manage," Bilbo retorted, and from above there was a sudden pealing of a great bell, and around them, the answering roar of firedrakes, greeting the birth of a new addition to the House of Durin. 

Bilbo clapped his hands around his ears at first, then ended up hugging Thorin tightly, laughing, their kiss bright with joy; they were still kissing when Dís was borne down on a litter, pale and weary but proud, with Gunnar clasping her hand tightly, her other hand holding a small bundle carefully to herself. 

"A boy," Dís said, as she beckoned for Thorin to approach. "His name is Fíli."

Gently, Thorin took the baby from her, which kicked and grabbed at a silver bead on his beard with a chubby hand. Bilbo peered - the child had a little, fine scruff of golden hair, and he stared at him with wide-eyed curiosity, then upwards, towards Smaug, as the firedrake leaned down, turning his one good eye towards the child. 

"Skyborn child, this is Fíli, of the House of Durin," Thorin said formally, in draconic, then in Westron, as the child, unbelievably, burbled and laughed. 

"Greetings, Fíli," Smaug rumbled, as softly as the firedrake could, but even at the thunder of his voice, the child laughed again. The firedrake drew carefully back, and Thorin kissed the baby boy on his forehead and passed the bundle back to his sister. Gunnar clasped arms tightly with Thorin, even as Bilbo carefully hugged Dís and got to hold the baby, and then Dís had to leave, bone weary - though not before she made some comment in the dwarven language that made Thorin scowl and Gunnar wince, and she handed the child to her mate with a fervent kiss that made Thorin's scowl worsen in brotherly disgust.

"The child didn't cry. That's a good sign," Bilbo said tentatively, when Dís was safely out of earshot. "Myrtle's going to regret missing this." 

"She would," Thorin agreed, staring after the exit, lost in thought, and Bilbo nearly flinched back as Smaug lowered his muzzle, nudging Thorin as gently as he could - which still meant shifting Thorin forward a few steps. Thorin reached over, to rub a palm over the ridges of his eye, the great golden orb flicking to glance at Thorin, then to Bilbo, and the firedrake rumbled something before pulling away and turning to head back towards the forges. 

Thorin shook his head slowly, watching his dragon go, and Bilbo noted, wryly, "You were thinking of offering to step down, weren't you?"

"It was a possibility," Thorin noted, then amended, "Should Dís' son present as an omega. After all-"

"Did Smaug tell you that you were being silly?"

"He told me that he expects me at Court on the morrow," Thorin replied, and managed a faint, lopsided smile, "Which I suppose is his way of doing so, yes."

"You're both impossible," Bilbo retorted, though he allowed Thorin to draw him over for another kiss. "And we are not engaging in anything improper in your dragon's den. I mean it, Thorin!" 

"Hmm," Thorin did, however, stop trying to unbutton Bilbo's waistcoat, instead pretending to inspect the brass buttons curiously. "How long are you staying, this time?"

"At least a couple of weeks? Bard invited us to look at how Dale is going, as well." At Thorin's contemplative look, Bilbo added, dryly, "You have responsibilities as Erebor's ruler, Thorin. You can't take two weeks off."

"I am King and I should be able to do what I want," Thorin retorted, though there was a wryness to his tone, as he led Bilbo insistently up towards the stair. 

Despite Bilbo's best efforts, the return to Thorin's chambers had been highly improper, to say the least, but his attempts to remonstrate were stifled in hungry kisses by the time they reached the bed. His poor brass buttons were long forcibly misplaced, and his hands, despite his irritation, were urgent still, helping Thorin eagerly with his armour until the final pieces were pushed from the bed, then he turned Thorin around on the sheets and licked a playful stripe up between Thorin's rump, over his pink, slick hole.

Thorin let out a muffled sound that was suspiciously close to a yelp, and then he was squirming and groaning as Bilbo followed the lick with another, rougher one, until he had Thorin trembling and gasping in the dwarven language, his face slack with ecstasy. Bilbo ignored the shaky grab Thorin made for him and kissed him deeply, tasting his slick, curling his tongue, ignoring his own aches as Thorin choked and cried out his name, shoving his hips back against Bilbo as he spilled thickly and untouched over the sheets.

"Oh," Bilbo murmured, though he had to clear his throat a few times as Thorin slumped on the sheets, breathless and wide-eyed. At Thorin's questioning stare, Bilbo carefully pressed his palm against Thorin's slowly softening prick, and grinned. "I did have other plans for this."

"Later," Thorin retorted roughly, turning onto his back and spreading his thighs, "I want something else right now with yours."

"You are most tremendously demanding," Bilbo shot back, though he obliged and sank deep with a shaky breath, keeping the pace slow despite Thorin's growls and grabs at his hip, until his stroking palms stiffened flesh beneath his fingers again.

2.0.

Rather to Bilbo's surprise, when he finally found Myrtle and Frodo, they were with Gíslaug. The little hobbitling was standing near the egg, looking awed, while Myrtle sat watchfully off to the side, speaking in draconic with the firedrake. They looked over when Bilbo started picking his way over the hot sands towards them, and Gíslaug lowered her snout, allowing Bilbo a pat before lifting her head again, curled around her egg.

Beside the egg was a surprisingly young dwarf omega, perhaps only a little older than Thorin, stout and with a russet beard, dressed in full armour and furs despite the heat of the forges. "Dáin Ironfoot," the dwarf introduced himself.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Bilbo Baggins, um, and-"

"We've already spoken to him," Myrtle replied, amused. "He's the son of Lord Náin of the Iron Hills, Thorin's second cousin."

"Oh." That explained the vague resemblance.

"I was with my father on Barazanthual during the Necromancer War," Dáin said proudly, then he carefully and absently stroked the shell of the egg. "They have gone ahead of me to the halls of Mahal, but they would have been pleased. My cousin has paid my House a great honor." 

Bilbo glanced over to Myrtle, who gave him a little shake of her head. Ah. One of the far too many who had fallen, then. If Dáin had survived, that was a miracle in and of itself. 

"I see," Bilbo said awkwardly, and Myrtle rolled her eyes at him, but thankfully, little Frodo chose that moment to save him from embarrassment, by piping up, "Can the baby dragon hear us already?"

"Aye, so it can," Dáin smiled at Frodo. Dwarves liked children, having few of their own as a race. "Your voice, mine, your uncle's, and even Myrtle's and Gíslaug's."

"And how long before we can to see it?" Frodo asked, as Bilbo scooped up his nephew hurriedly before Frodo stumbled over to try and touch the egg. Gíslaug had already been very generous, allowing people who weren't part of her crew, her companion or her egg's future companion to visit, but he didn't want to push his luck.

"Months yet," Dáin looked up over to Gíslaug, then back to Bilbo. "If Gíslaug is willing, we could ask you over for the hatching. There'll be a ceremony."

"For the birth of a firedrake?" 

"Usually there's a celebration of some sort, no matter what sort of dragon it'll be," Dáin agreed cheerfully, "But there may be a bigger party this time, if only because the egg is of Smaug. Besides, I don't know what ye think of us dwarves, but we do like t'have a knees up with plenty of beer, and this is as good a reason as any." 

"We'll love to come," Myrtle bent slightly, allowing Frodo to be hoisted up to her saddle, out of reach of mischief.

"We'll bring presents," Frodo said quickly, his face screwing up in thought. "We'll have to have a great think!"

"'We'll have to give it some thought'," Bilbo corrected absently, and raised his eyebrow when Frodo stuck out his tongue at him. Prim - poor, late Prim - had let her boy run rather wild, and as much as Frodo was a joy to have around, he could also be rather trying. 

Bilbo also suspected that foisting off the boy on Bofur was probably not a very good idea, especially when Frodo started all but shrieking with laughter when Ósorgr pulled faces at him, but they did have an appointment in Dale.

Siloratan was curled in silvery loops, occasionally interjecting when Legolas laughed - Bard was stumbling over Quenya, sounding as though he was mangling the delicate language even to Bilbo's untrained ears. The King of Dale looked up in relief when Bilbo landed, striding over to shake his hand after he dismounted. "What news?"

"Little since our last visit. The new princeling's lungs grow in depth each day," Bilbo said wryly. Sturdy as the Palace was, he could still hear it whenever young Fíli threw a tantrum. It had to be a dwarven thing, to get out all that was noisy and capricious in them when they could not yet walk, and become sober and stolid thereafter. 

"You could stay here," Bard offered, though he grinned, and Legolas added at the same time, "You could stay in the Greenwood."

"I don't know," Myrtle noted mildly to Bilbo, "Which place would you rather have Thorin declare war on?"

"We could take them," Legolas said, and glanced up when Siloratan nudged at his shoulder, and translated. The dragon thought about this for a long moment, eyeing Myrtle, then Erebor, and leaned over, gently pushing Bard with the side of his snout a few steps towards Bilbo. Legolas laughed again, slapping his palm against Siloratan's silvery flank. "Father wouldn't be pleased that you think that way."

Siloratan sniffed, and curled up again, and they managed to go through almost half of lunch before the long-suffering raven arrived, perching on the back of the chair beside Bilbo and giving him a plaintive look.

"You can tell Thorin that I'll be home after lunch," Bilbo told it primly, and at its ruffled feathers, offered it a strip of steak at the pinkest part. Its great beak clacked over the meat, and it swallowed before leaping back up into the air. 

Siloratan peered at him, then spoke to Legolas, who translated, amused, "Siloratan says that dwarves are careful never to let go of their good fortune."

To his consternation, Bilbo found himself blushing, and he muttered, "Well, um," even as Myrtle sniffed and helped herself to more pastries.

"It's good counsel in general," Bard declared, leaning over to curl his fingers over Legolas', and the Prince smiled, warm and bright.

3.0.

"I'm thinking that you should be Mayor," Paladin told Bilbo, when they had settled down for tea, and Hamfast promptly choked on the macaron that he had been eating.

When Myrtle had calmed Hamfast down and then soothed an alarmed Dandelion with another cup of tea, she eyed Paladin firmly. "No. No more arbitrary responsibilities. Look what happened the last time!"

"Yes, well," Paladin looked a little shamefaced, "What happened was that we helped rid the world of a Great Evil, or something like that, didn't we, Gandalf?"

Gandalf arched a whiskery brow at them, settled in firmly for warm tea and biscuits the way an itinerant wizard only could. "Yes, of course."

"You never told us how that went," Esme said as politely as she could, but behind her chair, Yarrow leaned forward, eager for the story.

"Well," Gandalf harrumphed, "Once the Necromancer was fully distracted, we breached his stronghold with the Lady Galadriel's Nenya, and cleansed it."

"The end?" Paladin asked doubtfully.

"The end," Gandalf agreed, and drank his tea. 

"Surely there was more to it than that," Bilbo began, always with his love of stories, "You took armies with you! All of the Men of Dale who were armed, all of the ground Elven and Dwarven troops. Surely-"

"The _end_ ," Gandalf repeated, raising his eyebrows. Certainly even Bard had been shaken by whatever he had seen in Dol Guldur - try as Bilbo might, he hadn't been able to pry the story out of the king. "There's some things that no manner of gentle folk ought to know about."

"But that's not fair!" Yarrow wailed.

"Fair's nothing to do with it, Yarrow," Gandalf retorted severely, "And don't you start, Bilbo Baggins. _And_ don't you and Scabious go poking about in the ruins," Gandalf added, transferring his stern gaze to Scabious, who visibly flinched. 

"We weren't even thinking about it," Paladin said defensively, "Much." 

"And we were talking about Bilbo becoming the Mayor," Scabious added hastily.

"Oh? What's wrong with the current one?"

"He's getting a little on in years." Paladin supplied, and Gandalf huffed. "Begging your pardon, your immortalship."

"Your mother should have named you 'Scamp' like I suggested, Paladin Took," Gandalf muttered, though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "Well, why not?"

"Why not?" Bilbo echoed, horrified, "Why, I've had quite enough of politics and talking to's and arranging things, I have. I want to stay quietly in Bag End with little Frodo and try never to end up in another battle again, ever."

Myrtle nodded vigorously. 

"In Bag End?" Esme asked, amused.

"Well, between here and there," Bilbo scowled at her, but she merely smirked and picked up another macaron. "Frodo doesn't mind, and Ori does a better job of teaching him his letters than any tutor here in the Shire."

"Ori," Gandalf repeated reflectively, "Dwalin's alpha?"

"I think so," Bilbo frowned. "Maybe not yet." Ori had fussed over Dwalin after the battle, and then they had disappeared somewhere before Bilbo could check on them. Aðalstein had seemed unconcerned, and although Dori had looked suspicious, he had been busy helping to coordinate the triage teams. "They're happy."

Ori had seemed happier and more self-confident after that, at least. There was someone for everyone after all. Thinking this over, lost in his own thoughts, Bilbo nearly missed Gandalf's question.

"And you, old friend?"

"Definitely," Bilbo said, and arched an eyebrow of his own when Gandalf continued to watch him thoughtfully. "What are you doing next, Gandalf?"

"Ah, there's always something for me to get up to here and there," Gandalf said vaguely, and Esme peppered him with questions even as Myrtle nudged Bilbo's arm. He petted her snout, stroking up to the horns on the bone ridges, and breathed out. This weekend. They'll go again to Erebor this weekend.

4.0.

Thorin found them sitting in the shadow of the carved stone slab, inscribed with the names of the fallen, a lantern sitting beside Bilbo. Candles had been lit around the slab, some melted almost to stubs, some fresh, enough to light up the names. Bilbo was smoking his pipe, almost dozing off, and it was Myrtle who whistled a welcome.

"Your Majesty should be at Court," Bilbo told him, though he scooted over to let Thorin sit down, and leaned into the embrace as an arm snaked behind the small of his back. 

Thorin snorted. "Court is not in session today. It's a firedrake's Hatching Day, after all. _You_ should be at the party." 

"Your sister's watching Frodo," Bilbo shrugged, and smiled lightly. Dís was taking to Minding Frodo with the same aggressive determination as she did anything else in life - Bilbo knew little Frodo would be kept strictly in line. "I wanted to sit with his parents for a while."

Drogo and Prim weren't technically buried here - like the other Shire casualties, what was left of them had been reverently laid to rest in the Greenfields - but this was closer than most, Bilbo felt, as he knocked out his pipe. Both Prim and Drogo had been felled by arrows, their bones shattered on the empty streets of Dale where they had landed, and Bilbo shivered at the memory, at the empty devastation he had felt when Paladin had numbly identified their bodies. War was the most horrific beast of all.

Thorin's arm tightened, and lips pressed briefly and comfortingly against his ear; couched in the scents of his dragon and his omega, Bilbo breathed out, warm and calm, and reached over to pick up Thorin's free hand, turning it palm up, pressing his thumb over the calluses. "When she was a little sprog, Prim believed that you could read a person's future on this," Bilbo traced what she had laughingly called a life line on Thorin's palm. "How long they'll live, how many children, who they'll mate with, that sort of thing."

"Did you believe it?" Thorin looked at his palm curiously, then grabbed Bilbo's, turning his palm up against his, comparing the lines.

"No." Bilbo said, with a laugh that sounded forced, even as Myrtle murmured, "Prim made up a lot of things when she was a hobbitling. Once she made us all hunt for the moon! She said that it had dropped into a lake. Poor Drogo swam out to see it, and almost drowned. Dandelion was in such a state."

"Poor Drogo," Bilbo echoed, looking up at the stone, as he tucked the pipe away. Offerings had little gifts had been left at the foot of the stone, mostly flowers. Myrtle and Bilbo had left a little bag of baccy, of Prim and Drogo's favourite Hornblower blend.

"Tell me about what she said," Thorin prompted gently, and Bilbo roused himself enough to trace out the life line, the heart line, the head line and the fate line. "You're selfish when it comes to love," Bilbo noted, amused, "And you're… what's this bit, Myrtle?"

She squinted. "Introverted, creative, many children? I can't remember," she declared, sounding subdued as she looked up at the stone, then she seemed to shake herself out of it, leaning over to spread her own clawed palm beside theirs. 

"Wrong hand," Thorin told her, and she sniffed.

"Prim said that dragons go with their left." There were no lines on dragonscale, of course, but Thorin pretended to pay attention as Bilbo traced imaginary ones over Myrtle's palm. 

"See that," Myrtle whispered, her wings arched around them both, "This bit's all the same. It means we'll be together for a very long time yet." 

"Many children?" Bilbo asked, amused, as Myrtle carefully grasped Thorin's hand and turned it this way and that, then Bilbo's.

"I don't remember how that one was meant to go," Myrtle nuzzled Bilbo gently, then Thorin. "And maybe we should check Smaug's, but I think we'll be just fine." 

Thorin eyed Myrtle with some surprise at the mention of Smaug, but she had already curled up around them both, clearly intent on dozing off on the sand. And so, instead, Thorin kissed Bilbo's temple instead, then his ear, then the corner of his mouth until Bilbo, laughing, turned to meet him. Entwined, entranced, they kissed and kissed until the sun came up, splashing golden over their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry if I couldn't ramble on a bit longer. I tend to drift out of fandoms pretty abruptly, and I just wanted to finish this fic while I still had the time and energy. 
> 
> For those who were following me all the way - thanks for your patience!  
> For those who just started - thanks for trying the fic. :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions or would like to discuss ficbunnies, you can reach me on twitter @manic_intent or on tumblr at manic-intent.tumblr.com :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [King and Dragonheart Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/842443) by [SDari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDari/pseuds/SDari)




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